London Nights
by lord admiral belisarius
Summary: In the Department of Mysteries, blood completes the circuit and links to other worlds.  Harry finds himself in a conflict of the legends of the world for the ultimate prize, the Holy Grail.  Once more, the London nights will reek of blood.
1. Summoning

Revised as of 18 August 2011. This is a pretty straightforward Fate/Stay Night and Harry Potter crossover. This was partly inspired by reading another such crossover and thinking "I can do better." Not very nice, I know. Now, though, I love this story for its own merits. It's quite fun to write

The question has been posed elsewhere with regards to "Why are you using the Grail War as presented in Fate/Stay Night because that's not the only type of Grail War." My answer is that, the concept of the Grail War of Fuyuki is awesome. If it's not broken, don't fix it.

I'm still looking for a beta for this. If you want to, leave me a PM or review or something.

Also note. This is not slash, yaoi, or anything of the sort.

Please enjoy the story.

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**Chapter 1**

**Summoning**

They'd cut him off from his friends. He ran, pursued by the huntress. Without a master to hold her leash, there was nothing to prevent her excesses. She smelled of blood and death. Glittering trails of spells passed through the air around him. Aiming a wand was difficult enough already while standing, to say nothing of running. However, he was younger and in much better physical condition than his pursuer.

He jumped over a desk, barely breaking stride as he ran. There she was, relentless like a juggernaut. He swung his wand around and cried out a spell name, sending a bolt of magic that crossed the distance in an instant. Nonetheless, the witch was able to twist around to avoid it. A manic grin crossed her face as she cast her own spell while pushing off from the desk. He motioned once more with his wand. The bolt diffused against the barrier. This was but a part of her plan. In a fight between youth and strength and age and treachery, the age and treachery tended to win.

The feet planted themselves in his chest, bringing him to the ground. Agony surged through his spine as he crashed to the hard tiles. The fist broke his nose with an ugly snap. His vision temporarily turned white. Bellatrix dipped her fingers into the blood with the gentleness of a lover's caress. She tasted the life-giving fluid with a predatory glee. A mean-spirited smile threatened to split her face.

"Problem, Ickle Harry?"

"Yeah, your face."

The bony plate of his skull smashed into her nose. There was the same ugly snap of broken bone. It dazed her for an instant, but for the desperate, an instant could seem like an eternity. The brain delivered the impulse. The nerves directed the impulse. The muscles carried out the impulse. His knuckles smashed into her cheek in blistering left hook. Her head whipped about. The brain again delivered the impulse. Harry slipped out from under her weight and began to run again. The hot trail of spell scorched the side of his face as he ran. It was the right choice to run. Soon enough, another pair of feet began to pound against cool tile.

He ducked behind a large shelf of books. The tomes were musty and old. Each was undoubtedly worth a fortune both for their knowledge and value. With a single spell, knowledge collected by wizards for centuries turned into so much shredded, flying paper. The shelf began to topple. The old wood creaked and groaned under unforeseen stresses. Gravity took hold, and the shelf slammed into another with the snapping sound of splintering wood. Books tumbled in a tidal wave of paper, parchment, leather, and glue.

The huntress was faster, sliding to halt just outside the dominoes of falling shelves. The insane grin was still on her face. He ran, dodging spellfire and slinging back his own curses and hexes. There was a decided contrast in the strings of spells cast by the two. He cast his spells in a disorganized fashion, casting the first useful ones that came to mind. He would cast a stunning spell, then a blasting spell, and then a disarming spell. She, on the other hand, cast her spells in a manner designed to punch through his meager defensive abilities. She would, in contrast, cast a blasting spell, then a disarming spell, and then a stunning spell. Her master did want the boy alive, at least for the moment.

Nonetheless, the boy could not help but enjoy himself. Yes, it was a life-or-death situation. Yes, he was exhausted. Yes, his friends were fighting on their own. A surge of primal power swelled through his veins. In all humans, there was an instinct to kill or be killed, to choose fleeing or fighting. Even when running, he still chose to fight. For the boy, it made perfect tactical sense to fight a running battle. He was an athlete in excellent condition, particularly with regards to endurance and cardio. Mrs. Lestrange was middle-aged and had only recently come out from one of the most brutal prisons envisioned by the human eye. Provided that the fight was purely a contests of physical strength, he had the advantage.

The boy ducked into another row of shelves. For this occasion, he did not intend to topple the tomes. He paused to catch his breath. His legs ached, and all his muscles began to quiver and tremble. Still, he had gained at least a temporary respite. He looked down the rows of untoppled bookshelves and saw a door. The portal could bring him to return and fight alongside his comrades. At the very least, he would put more space between him and the huntress.

The lightning flash of a revolving blade barely had time to register before a sharp pain occupied his thigh. The cold steel slid between muscle with ease. Red blood oozed out to stain the leg of his trousers.

There was one fundamental flaw in his choice of tactics to deal with her. He forgot the terrain in which he was fighting. The tight and cramped quarters favored light and handy things like wands, and the obstructed visibility reduced ranges to those where wands were most effective. Ordinarily, this should not have been an issue, with both sides being at an equal advantage. Indeed, there was some advantage to the boy with razor sharp reflexes in a close-quarters duel. However, there was a vast power gap between them. At a range where magic was extremely effective, the advantage lay with the huntress. Moreover, these same close quarters also served to slow down his running, closing the physical gap. The greatest advantage for the older witch was the twisting and confusing and poorly lit nature of the battleground. For her, one of greater experience and treachery, it allowed her many options for nasty ambushes and trickery.

The knife which had buried its blade in his leg was a result of the environmental trickery. She had stealthily climbed all the way to the top of a bookshelf, being very careful not to tip it over. From there she was able to spot him. Knowing that a spell would give her away, she decided to make usage of the knife that she habitually carried with her. She had then thrown the knife. Knife-throwing was always somewhat of a gamble as to whether or not the knife would land with the blade in target, but the huntress was more than experienced in the ways of the knife. This expertise greatly reduced the margin of error. Additionally, the wild gamble of knife-throwing suited her personality quite well.

He limped toward the door. Blood trickled down his leg and onto the floor, leaving an obvious trail. The huntress smiled, leaping from bookshelf to bookshelf with the grace of a panther. She climbed down quite near to the boy and rushed out, wand at the ready as he made his appearance. He too had his wand at the ready. It was a battle of two lightning quick reflexes. The brain delivered the impulse. The nerves directed the impulse. The muscles carried out the impulse.

The boy was faster and managed to cast a stunning spell in the middle of her spell.

She finished her own spell before the stunner hit. It was a cutting spell aimed toward the tendons in his wand arm. Air distorted as the spell made its path. Green eyes widened in recognition. He began to sidestep to avoid the spell, but his leg gave out on him. Nonetheless, this sudden motion was enough to avoid the distorted air of the cutting spell. It was a close call, though. It shredded the sleeve of his robe. The dark fabric floated in the air like a vulture circling a meal.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he crawled. Blood dripped from the knife wound, but he didn't dare to remove it. To do so would likely increase the bleeding, and he'd end up bleeding out on the floor within minutes. He was already starting to feel lightheaded. Muscles and sinews strained as he righted himself. He continued his march, moving past the door. With a quick spell, the doors slammed shut.

Drip. Drip. Drip. More crimson left behind a trail for the huntress.

Pain was a constant. From his broken nose to the knife lodged in his thigh, there was only an agony. So great a pain brought a mist over his senses. There was no sense of real direction, merely a sensation forward. Perhaps forward would bring an end to his pain.

Step. Step. Step. Striving forward to success, that was his way.

He rested a weary body against a wall. Already, a small puddle was forming. He pushed ever onwards. Not even the huntress could stop him. Not even the Dark Lord could stop him. Not even the very fires of hell would stop him. He would reach his goal. Nothing would stop him.

His vision began to grow grey. He had lost all too much blood.

"It can't end. Not like this."

"I'm afraid it can, Ickle Harry."

The twisted witch had returned. Step by elegant step, she approached. There was nothing to be done. A quick flick of her wand and an incantation forced his legs to lock up. That gaunt, insane visage taunted him every step of the way.

"My master wants you alive, at least for the moment."

She cackled at her own joke.

"I've temporarily put your legs into stasis with that spell. No bleeding out for you, not until my master declares that you should. Now hand over the prophecy."

With this question, a burning rage wormed its way through his heart and spread throughout his body. There was only one response to her.

"Over my dead body!"

"That can be arranged."

All the while, he had been groping around for some method of escape. There was no door behind him, but one of the bricks had felt different. Thankfully, the gloom afforded him some secrecy during this action. The huntress would soon be upon him, and there would be no opportunity for this sort of subterfuge.

His hands felt a brick different from all the rest. There was nothing to do but go forward. He pushed against the brick, at his touch, it depressed. The wall behind him opened to form a door. It was a dark abyss behind him, but he would always go forward. He rocked back and fell.

Stygian darkness enveloped him. There was nothing to about it. He had made his choice. He had thrown himself into the depths of hell. He did not regret this choice. He would never regret any step he made forward. The only steps he would regret were the ones that went backwards. He hit stone steps. It was cold and old, bereft of human touch for uncounted years. He rolled and bounced against the hard stone. Feeling was beginning to return to his legs, and it was not a good feeling. The rent formed by the knife had opened further in his descent. Blood oozed out, as if from an oil well. There she was, at the top of the stairs. The shoes clicked against the hard stone.

One of the tenets of the Jewish religion is that the life is in the blood. This tenet provides a good deal of insight to some their food laws. For wizards, the same tenet was true. The most powerful magics required the transfer of life, a blood sacrifice. A great quantity of his blood had spilled out upon the floor. Were this an ordinary floor, nothing would have happened aside from the transfer of his life from the body. However, this floor was no ordinary one. This space was the secret workshop of a wizard. It was not a workshop for just any breed of wizard; it was the workshop for the old breed of wizard who worked in search of mysteries. The empty space was empty for the purpose of a magical circle. A hexagram made from gold leaf had been formed upon the floor. Mystical symbols lined the space between the inner and outer rings. It was prepared for a summoning. The former owner of the workshop likely died just before he would have begun his summoning.

Agony, a pain greater than all of his wounds, ripped through his body. It was as if his insides were going through a blender or crushed between millstones. Every last nerve was on fire. A foreign power ripped through his body. From an outside perspective, it was almost like the completion of a circuit. A mystery long since forgotten was reactivated this night. This magic was long forbidden by the Ministry, but they had lost sight of the essence of magic, the pursuit of mystical mysteries and things once forbidden. They had forgotten that death was the essence of magic. The blood provided a power. The gold drunk this power, communing with other worlds.

Magic gathered tonight to perform a mystery. There is a realm beyond death for those whose tales were sung long after they were gone. The brave men and women who had made their names in a world drenched in magic had gone to this place instead of joining back into the perpetual cycle of souls. It was a throne for heroes. It was a place for names such as King Arthur, Medea, Heracles, Lancelot, Alexander the Great, Gilgamesh, Cu Chulain, Hassan-i-Sabbah. They were legends, they were heroes. For this night, a spirit from the Far East was called into servitude. Magic crystallized spirit into a material form.

A hand was extended to boy. The magical furnace had staunched the bleeding.

"I ask of you, are you my Master?"

Standing in front of him was a girl. She was clad in armor of a Japanese design. Had he known more about Japanese armor, he would have recognized the suit as dating back to the Sengoku period of Japan. The iron and leather and bamboo suit was colored in scarlet and black. The thing, strangely enough, which drew the attention of the boy was the smooth, black cuirass of the armor. Had he known more about Japanese armor, he would have recognized it as being of the Hotoke-Do style, but alas. Her hair was tied back in a neat topknot. The other thing that struck him was her eyes, an unnatural golden shade. Twin swords, long and short were secured to her side. Secured behind her back were a pair of matchlock muskets with shortened barrels and pistol grips. The steel of the barrels was perfectly blued, and the image of a demon was etched with silver in the dark metal.

He took the offered hand, and she effortlessly pulled him up.

"I ask of you, are you my Master?" inquired the girl.

"I don't know."

"Where are your command seals?"

"I don't know, but I did summon you or something like that."

"Correct. There is a steady flow of prana from you to me. I am willing to temporarily make an alliance with you before ascertaining whether or not you are my Master."

"Who are you?"

"You may call me Servant Archer. Before you ask, that is not my true name; however, I will not reveal my name in the presence of enemies."

"Say, Archer," he began, "Let's shake on it. I know it's probably a meaningless gesture, but let's shake on it."

He extended his hand to the armor-clad girl. With a firm grasp, she shook it.

"That was touching, but I'm afraid that you've got to go, Archer. That boy is mine," said the huntress.

"Stay back and allow me to handle this," stated Archer

The twin muskets were already in Archer's hands. The wand was pointed at Archer. The boy simply stood back. Archer laughed; it was a haughty laugh, the laugh of a warrior told that his opponents would be old men and boys. She twirled the muskets before sliding them behind her back where they had previously been secured.

"I don't even need those to win. You aren't even worth my signature style."

Archer grasped the hilt of her katana. Slowly, she drew the length of the sword. The blade was a gleaming river of silver with a wavelike pattern along the edge. Where the blade met the handguard was a single symbol: 天 or "ten". This symbol was the kanji character for "heaven," a character derived from the radical for outstretched limbs. The hilt was wrapped with a pure, white cloth.

The huntress cast a spell against the archer. There was no effect. Another spell was cast against the scarlet and black samurai. Archer laughed once more at her foe. The razor sharp blade of the katana sliced apart a spell in midair.

"Don't you know," said Archer, "that I have magic resistance?"

In an instant, Archer crossed the space. Under the constraints of physics, such movement should have been impossible. However, she was not human. Magic reinforced her steps and magic made a form that did not yield to such trivialities. Steel, flawless and firm, flashed in the light.

The huntress was not there. In her place was a man. He was not a healthy man with his corpse-like pallor and sickly form. Nonetheless, he practically hummed with magical power. Archer halted.

"Bella, Bella, Bella. You simply play with your food too much. Potter, you continue to surprise me, still. Nonetheless, Avada Kedavra."

There was a misconception on the part of the Dark Lord. With regards to Archer's magic resistance, he failed to grasp how it worked. There was a certain element of power connected with the length of the aria used for the spell. This relationship also explained why silent spells were not nearly as powerful as those with the full enchantment. For all its power, the Killing Curse was a mere one-verse spell. Archer's class ability of magic resistance canceled out any spell with a length below two verses. Therein, was perhaps the greatest weakness of modern witches and wizards. Almost all spells had their lengths confined to a single verse. Such a thing made them childishly easy to cast, but still childishly weak in comparison to the wizards willing to deal with death or permanent separation from magic when they attempted longer and more involved magical rituals.

Understanding this, Archer moved forward. The spell had been perfectly aimed, even accounting for her skills surpassing human limits. The Dark Lord had turned the Killing Curse into an art form. It struck Archer squarely in the center of her breastplate. Archer nearly collapsed as an agony surged briefly through her nerves, but Archer was strong and moved to separate the Dark Lord's head from his body with a single slash of her katana. The powerful thing, for it was not truly alive or dead, disappeared into so much smoke. The huntress, Bella, too disappeared in a likewise manner. Archer resheathed her sword.

"About the matter of command seals?"

"I understand, Archer. Check me over."

Archer took a look at his leg. The knife was still lodged deep in his thigh. Blood trickled out, but not nearly as much as it had before/

"You're wounded."

Archer grabbed at the dagger's hilt and yanked it out. He screamed bloody murder as she pulled the steel out. The dagger itself was plain to the layman's eye, but to Archer's eye and touch, it was masterfully balanced with a perfectly shaped blade for a throwing knife. Using the very same knife, Archer cut off part of the trousers leg and set about cutting off a strip to make an improvised bandage. Quickly, she finished with that business. Immediately, she began to look at his wrists before simply pulling off his robe and shirt.

"Ah, you are my Master. Your command seals are located on your back, just outside of where you could see them," said Archer, "Now I don't have to kill you. What is your first official order?"

"First, my name is Harry Potter. Please call me Harry because it's just strange to be called 'Master.' Second, I'd like to meet back with my friends. Is there any way you could help me?"

"Yes, Harry. Allow me to explain a little. I am a Heroic Spirit who was summoned by you into the class of 'Archer.' One of the basic abilities of the Servant is, since I am a spirit, to dematerialize into a spiritual form. This would allow me to pass through walls and such, provided there are no spiritual barriers to search for your friends. However, I need to see these friends of yours. Furthermore, Harry, you would be at risk. Even if I can survive for some time without your prana, I would still disappear if you die. That is a gross oversimplification, but it will do for now."

"Archer, please go into your spiritual form and search for my friends. As soon as possible, return and lead me to them. Chances are that they'll be fighting people in dark cloaks and skull masks."

Archer nodded. Harry stood up.

"Acknowledged, Master. If you need me, call me."

The samurai disappeared and Harry was left all alone. He decided to examine the workshop and perhaps glean some information with regards to Archer. There was a manilla envelope on the desk. Dust had collected for years on that ancient piece of paper. With a quick spell, he checked for magic countermeasure on the envelope. It was better safe than sorry. He opened up the folder. The information in the letter was useless. There was another paper on the desk. Though stained horrifically with dried blood, parts were still readable.

Holy Grail War. London. Servants. Heroic Spirits. The Holy Church. Seven Masters. Fight to the death. Wish machine. Saber. Archer. Lancer. Rider. Caster. Assassin. Berserker.

Reading through these notes, he felt even more confused than when he had began. His mind was simply unable to grasp the magnitude of thing into which he had entered.

"Master..."

There was no response from him.

"Harry!"

"Yes? What is it?"

The red and black knight sighed. Of all the people she could have ended up with for a master, it was this one.

"I've found your friends. Follow me."

"Right!"

Harry began to run. Archer easily kept pace with him, leading him through the twisting corridors and confusing sets of rooms.

"This is taking too long. Allow me to hasten the process."

"Whoa, Archer! What are you doing?"

Archer had taken hold of Harry in her arms, carrying him bridal style. With the Master securely in her arms, Archer was able to move at a pace more fitting for one like her. Inhumanly strong, inhumanly fast. Legs cracked the ground as they rushed forward. Archer moved yet faster, leaving a trail of shattered tile in her wake. The sounds of battle drew near. Some of the sounds were different, the swish of a wand through the air and arcane incantations of spells. Others were in the universal language of curses and pained screams. Archer slide to halt. Friction should have torn her sandals apart, but even her garments had the same sort of existence as that of the spirit herself. Archer set him down.

Archer knelt in front of him. Nonetheless, he felt that Archer's display of respect was only mocking him. He'd seen her action, the breathtaking speed and power. There was a wry smile just for him on her countenance, proving his suspicions.

"Orders, Master?"

"You said you were a Heroic Spirit, right?"

"Correct."

"That means that you were a hero during your lifetime, correct."

"Indeed."

"Surely, you were a king or warrior or knight or something?"

"Again, correct."

"Then shouldn't I, the normal human, be bowing to you instead. Besides, it just doesn't look like subservience is something that comes naturally to you; you seem to be the commanding type."

"I appreciate the sentiment. During my life, I was a warlord, a leader of armies. I was also a noble. I suppose that such things are more natural. However, you are Master and I am Servant. There is a difference, and I'll accept such a relationship to get what I want."

"Archer, I'm not really interested in this Master and Servant thing. If anything, you're my superior. Let's be partners, equals."

Archer smiled and laughed softly. He extended his hand to help her up. She took it.

"Shall we shake on it?" inquired Archer, "Since that seems to be your preferred method of sealing a deal."

He smiled and they shook hands. Compared the formalities of the Master-Servant relationship, this was a mere gentleman's agreement, but it was an agreement undertaken out of free will rather than the necessity of the Master-Servant bond.

Archer laughed loudly.

"Well then, Master Harry Potter, you have now obtained the favor of a demon. The die has been cast. I hope you are enough of a man to live with the consequences."

"I'll keep moving forward, Archer. That's my way."

Archer laughed and clapped him on the back.

"Your orders?"

"Dispose of those fighting my friends."

"What an interesting choice of phrasing! I'm liking you even more."

Archer unsheathed the blade of heaven. She was off like a shot from a gun. Harry too was off. It was not the sort of thing he would do to give up on his friends, and furthermore, it would be a disappointment to not fight alongside his partner. Sitting back and letting someone else take care of his mess simply did not sit well with him. He saw one Death Eater pointing a wand at Ginny's head and cast a stunning spell. The dark wizard blocked his spell with a quick shield. A thunderous roar of noise echoed throughout the office-turned-battlefield. The enemy wizard's head practically exploded like an overripe watermelon hit with a sledgehammer. Blood and gore, a rather small amount considering that the Death Eater had been practically decapitated, splattered onto Ginny. There was Archer. The musket had been fired over her shoulder without so much as a glance at the foe.

"You fool! In a battle, you fight to kill!" shouted Archer as her lightning quick slashes cut another Death Eater into seven distinct pieces.

"W-Who is that?"

"Archer, she's a friend. Where are the others?"

"I don't know! I was separated from them!" said the near, hysterical girl.

"Hey, calm down. Wipe your face, dry your tears. It's no fault of your own. Hell, I was separated for a while."

"Harry, someone approaches," called Archer.

"Harry, is that you? Thank God that you're alive!" exclaimed a man. The man walking into the room had gaunt features and a rough stubble covering his jawline. It could only be one man, his godfather Sirius Black.

Archer flicked the blade of her katana, removing the blood from the gleaming surface of the supernatural blade. Such fluids made a mockery of the perfection of the blade. It was the very concept of "sword" ascended to a higher plane of existence. Nonetheless, there were greater legendary blades than Archer's own such as those possessed by King Arthur: Caliburn and Excalibur. However, neither of those blades fitted Archer; they only truly fit with King Arthur. In a split second, Archer's blade was at his throat.

"It's alright, Archer. That's just my godfather. He's on our side."

"Of course."

Archer quickly backed off, returning to Harry's side. Amazingly, not one drop of blood had so much has touched her armor. She sheathed the blade without any sounds aside from the click as the handguard met the sheath. Ginny could not help but gasp at the casual ease at which the foreign knight assumed the demeanor of an aristocrat. Such ease could only come from years on the battlefield or from a heart cold as ice; Ginny could not tell which one was the case.

"It's nice to see that my godson has become acquainted with the ladies, but what exactly happened? Why is she with you? Who the hell calls themselves 'Archer?'"

"I met your godson in this complex. Extenuating circumstances brought about an alliance. As for those men, I killed them. 'Archer' is more of a title than anything."

"She helped me against the Dark Lord and Bellatrix," said Harry, speaking up.

"I suppose you're alright, Archer," said Sirius, "You should follow me. The Order arrived and is dealing with the Death Eaters. Let's rendezvous with them."

They began to run through the twisting, turning, and confusing maze of corridors, rooms, and chambers of the Ministry. Aside from the din of their footsteps, there was but silence. Harry vaguely recalled the route; if he remembered correctly, it was the one which led to the large and empty gothic vault with the Roman arch and ragged, grey veil.

"Say Archer, how old are you?" asked Harry, "You don't look much older than your late teens or early twenties."

"What year is it?" responded Archer with a query of her own.

"1996," answered Ginny.

"Y'know, Harry," began Archer, "There are two things you should never ask a girl, or so I've heard. These two things would be her age and weight."

"Sorry Archer. Out of curiosity, do your weapons have names?"

"Yes," said the scarlet knight as she drew close enough to whisper in his ear, "My blades and my guns both have names, but understand this, Master, we are but one of seven teams involved in a Holy Grail War. There will be six other legends like me..."

"... Holy Grail War," whispered Harry, "I read a little about it. Whoever had been that place before I had stumbled upon it had evidently been preparing for one."

"Now listen, every Servant like me has a legend that was passed down through the ages. To know the name is to know the legend, which can be used against the Servant. Similarly, there are items and skills of these Heroes which become a crystallized mystery known as a Noble Phantasm. My swords and guns are Noble Phantasms. They have names, names which relate back to the owner. To reveal the Noble Phantasm is to often reveal the identity of the Servant, something I wish to avoid unless absolutely necessary," whispered Archer softly.

"I think I understand," replied Harry, "but could you please reveal your identity to me privately."

"I was planning on doing that, Master, but I don't particularly trust this company."

The boy made as if to say something but thought better of it. He asked another question to her, inquiring, "How many do you have?"

"I have three Noble Phantasms, Harry," said Archer so quietly that only Harry could hear her voice.

The four came down the end of the corridor. Their path was barred by a stout wooden door. A spell from Sirius opened the door. A soft laughter reached their ears alongside the pungent fragrance of wine which reached their noses. There sat the most dangerous man in magical Britain neither dead nor alive. The thing sat regally upon an opulent throne he had created via magic. At his side, the unstable huntress of Bellatrix shared in her lord's pleasure. The clinked crystal goblets of sweet, dark wine together for a toast.

"Good evening Harry Potter, Ginevra Weasley, Sirius Black, and you too, mysterious Archer," began Voldemort with a voice as smooth as glass.

"What do you want!" shouted Harry.

"The prophecy, of course. The prophecy can only be heard by those to whom it pertains -ergo, you and I- and I wish to hear it with my own ears. Sadly, my men were too incompetent to obtain it from you. As the saying goes, if you want something done right, you must do it yourself."

"On my signal, make a break for it," whispered Sirius, "I'll try and hold them off as long as I can. Harry, I'm sorry that I couldn't have been a better godfather."

"You don't seem too willing to divulge the prophecy," said Voldemort, "Potter, I have a question for you: why do you want to keep the prophecy from me? Is it for your own sake? Is it for another's? I'm honestly quite curious why you fight."

"Partly, I'm doing it for Dumbledore. Honestly, Voldemort-"

"Hah! The boy uses my name. Only one other man would use my name like that. I must give you some grudging respect."

"-I'm doing it out of revenge. To be honest with myself, I want to avenge my parents and the others that were killed in your reign of terror."

"I see you can do what few can and admit the selfishness of their own existence. I like that. We're so close that we might as well be old friends. What say you, Harry?"

"I'm no friend of yours, Voldemort."

"This is precisely why I like you, this fighting spirit; it reminds me of myself. However, I would like to clear up a misconception that you hold, one undoubtedly fed to you by Dumbledore like a fawning spaniel. My desire is not really pureblood supremacy. You see, I have a much greater goal in mind. I wish to reach Void and bring it into this world. This has become a stagnant age. In my world, such men would perish by the sword and fire. This world must be destroyed and new, more perfect form rise from the ashes. Do you now understand, Harry?"

"I think I do. It seems like an insane desire to me."

"One who speaks his mind, I like that. None are nearly so blunt as you are."

"Reducto!" shouted Sirius. The crystal goblet shattered. None of the shrapnel so much as grazed the dark lord. A shark-like grin threatened to split the thing's corpse-like face. Harry took Ginny and ran to leave. Archer followed.

"Bella, Bella, Bella, please stay your hand. I can deal with this trash. Avada..."

The incantation had begun. There would be no end until the magic released itself. For a spell of its nature, the Killing Curse was surprisingly effective. The greater raw power behind the very concept of the spell allowed it to rip through magical barriers and protections.

"... Kedavra."

A flash of green and another demise. Harry turned around. Sirius collapsed upon the floor. He had died with a smile on his face. A simulacrum of the defining event of his life. The hammer was cocked. Something exploded inside him.

"Ginny," he said coldly, "leave. Get some help if you can. I've got a job to do."

Archer gave him a slow applause. Ginny gave him a strange look, but still left. He knew just how insane this course of action was. He was acting upon his passions, but he nonetheless felt empty on the inside. There was nothing.

"You're the sort of man I would have wanted in my army. Your plan?"

"We're going to go in and fight and we'll win. You'll deal with the Dark Lord; I'll deal with his henchman."

"Yes, my Master."

The two strode into the chamber. The twin muskets were in Archer's hand. The matches glowed a hellish orange. The wand was ready. This time, he had a plan on hand. Like cartridges in the chamber of a revolver, he had his next six spells sorted out and ready. Blasting. Piercing. Cutting. Fire. Cold. Shield. The chambers were loaded.

"So you've come back to face me and avenge your godfather. You've got a certain visceral fortitude I admire. I really could use someone like you on my side, Harry," said the dark wizard.

A single twitch of a finger. A snapping of a spring. A strike of a match into a pan. An ignition of powder. An explosive impulse. A slug of lead hurtling out. Air compressed as it easily broke the sound barrier. A wall of stone rose up to block the musket ball. Had this been an ordinary stone, a projectile shot by a Noble Phantasm would have punched cleanly through; however, powerful magics bound the stone together. It was a base and ugly method, but it worked.

The first spell was already out of his mouth and moving at a fast rate toward the witch. The second was cast as the first was flying. The witch returned fire with a blasting spell of her own. Neither was casting protective magics, trusting in their skill and reflexes. His cutting spell was in the air as the blasting spell ripped apart stone with ease. The piercing spell left a long trench as thick as his thumb in one of the walls. Her blasting spell ripped made a crater four feet in diameter behind him. It was a raw power that he couldn't match. At his best, his blasting spells made perhaps a crater three feet in diameter, a size reduced in the heat of battle. It was a much better shot than he would have against Voldemort; that was why he had sent the Heroic Spirit against the Dark Lord. The incantation for the fire spell began. His intent shaped the magic coalescing into his wand. As a result, instead of a spark that would slowing cross the distance and ignite flammable objects, the spell acted like a flamethrower, spewing blue flames at the huntress.

It should have been impossible. A wizard of the modern era against the Knight of the Bow. Modern magic was simply not up to fighting a Heroic Spirit with magic resistance, but Voldemort was managing it anyway. With a mastery of apparation, she found herself unable to use her swords. With a mastery of transfiguration and a creative mind, he was able to defeat the musket fire. For Archer, there was but one final option, one which she was loath to use against a mere human. Noble Phantasm. Even if she trusted her Master, she did not like this plan one bit. If he were far away in a fortress, Archer might have been able to fight at her full power. However, the amount of concentration she had to spend on keeping track of her Master interfered with her fighting ability. If her Master were to die here, she would lose any and all chance of obtaining the Grail. Such was unacceptable.

The doors burst open. Air already overflowing with magical power received an additional booster shot as the most powerful wizard of the times entered into the chamber. All fighting temporarily ceased at his majesty. Behind half-moon spectacles were eyes as cold as ice.

"Harry, m'boy, you'd best leave. Tom, I'm afraid I'll have to stop you here."

"You can try, Professor, but I don't think so. Bella, leave me. This fight will be one on one."

Archer returned to Harry's side. Bellatrix apparated away. Archer grabbed her master with a knowing smile. Harry returned his Servant's smile.

"Yeah. Let's go Archer."


	2. The Grail War

Caster is such an asshole, and his smacktalk is so much fun to write. Still looking for beta. Trying not to be too pushy. Unintentionally, I ended the chapter in a similar fashion

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**Chapter 2**

**The Grail War**

New footsteps and voices echoed throughout the halls. A quick glance from around a corner confirmed that it was the slimy minister and his cronies. At this point, Archer and the boy had two goals: evasion and escape. Neither of these tasks were easy ones for the pair. Harry had to assume that the others had been able to take care of themselves. However, Archer's ability to turn into an incorporeal spirit form was a great asset for remaining undetected. Now, they were mere yards away from escape. Several aurors guarded the elevators to exit the Ministry building.

"Your orders, Master?" came the voice of Archer in spirit form in his ear.

"Don't kill them, but get rid of them. Please avoid maiming also."

"Of course. I would never..."

"I saw what you did with those Death Eaters, Archer."

"You told me to 'dispose of them.' I did so. Problem?"

"Yes. I know I ordered you to kill them, but I never thought killing would be like that."

"Such sights were not uncommon during my life. Death was so common that mothers would but smile as their infants were quartered. To use a more modern idiom, grow a pair and gain some testicular fortitude."

"I'll try, Archer."

"No you will, Harry."

Archer and Harry continued. In spite of the calm and unhurried gait of the boy as he walked away from the Ministry Building. The London nightlife easily surrounded the boy. Ethereal as she was, Archer was an unnoticed guardian angel. She fell in above and behind him. London was parts old and new. At this time of night, though, most well-meaning folks had surrendered themselves to sleep's sweet embrace. The night's crowd was not a good crowd. Drunkards and harlots, revelers and druggies, criminals and homeless. This was the night's crowd.

Harry liked to consider himself a good man. He liked to think of himself as an upstanding and friendly type of guy. Part of this stemmed from a desire to simply prove Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge wrong about him; they thought he was the sort of person common in this light-polluted darkness. It was doing the right thing for the wrong reasons. It was partly out of spite that he tried to be a good person. It was an almost paradoxical existence, but there was a genuine goodness.

"What I read had a little information on the Grail War. One of the things I picked up, Archer, was that it's run by the Catholic Church. Problem is that there are a few Catholic Churches in London. Obviously there are more Anglican churches, but it's a sufficiently large and spread out number of Catholic ones to make finding the right one difficult," communicated Harry via thought.

"You seem upset."

"Well yeah, I'm trying to change the subject."

"What is it, Harry? Are you upset by what I told you?"

"Yeah, but I suppose it's because you're right, Archer."

"Yeah, truth hurts. Deal with it and get better. Besides, it's not like I hate you. I don't claim to be an expert, but without a physical catalyst, the catalyst is a matter of personality and desire. As a general, this is obviously preferable; I'd rather work with an average soldier that I could get along with than a powerful soldier who I can't get along with. It builds trust and in the thick of battle, you have to trust in your comrades to cover you while they trust you to cover them."

Harry smiled before thinking, "Thanks, Archer."

"It's no problem. I just don't want some effeminate, emasculated man as my partner."

"You're pretty blunt, Archer. Y'know that?"

"I do. I was called a 'Fool' throughout my youth. Good times."

High in the air, a black crow flew. Beady eyes gazed down without pity or judgment on the world below. It was looking for something specific. This was no normal bird. The bird was fashioned from clay with an expert's touch. Loving detail had been applied with the paint for every individual feather was painted on. The eyes were made from pure crystal. Most important of all in its creation was the breath of life provided my magic, allowing the sculpture to take flight in the skies. It's task was simple. For a device lacking any sentience or sapience, such a task was ideal. It was ordered to detect a particular type of magic. The Ministry building glowed a bright blue, almost like propane flames. Mundane things were a plain greyscale. Within six blocks of the Ministry of Magic, something glowed red; it was a red like luminescent blood. Upon detecting this, the automaton sent a burst of information via magic in a manner much like secure military transmissions back to its creator. The clay raven moved to circle around the phenomenon. It did not care or need to care what the phenomenon was. Right now, it was a tracker.

Elsewhere, the information flooded into the head of the creator. Soon enough, a phone was in his hand. It was black, old-style rotary dial phone. It had been loving preserved over the years. In hushed tones, a conversation was carried out across the line. Far away, a man got into a conservative, grey 1986 Rolls-Royce Silver Spirit. He fired up the well-oiled V8 6750 cc engine. British automotive engineering purred like a kitten. The car slipped into the traffic of the London night. There was nothing strange about this car; it blended right into the others. The grey Rolls-Royce pulled by the sidewalk where Harry was walking. A tinted window rolled down.

"You," said a voice which Harry new was directed towards him, "C'mere."

Harry did so. He had Archer right there in case of something happening. He trusted the Heroic Spirit with his all.

"The supervisor of the Sixth Heaven's Feel requests your presence."

"Why?"

"It is a requirement; all the other Masters have already done such a thing. There are certain rules which must be observed. I'll drive you there, kid."

"Alright. This had better not be a kidnapping attempt."

"You do have a Servant with you, right? If you do, such idiocy would be folly."

"Alright, alright. That's a good point. So, how are you involved in this whole thing?"

"Me, the supervisor called in a debt. I'm just working that off."

Harry opened up the door and sat in the back. He pulled it closed with a heavy sound. Archer followed him as he strapped into the leather of the Rolls Royce.

"Catholic priests, huh?"

"Nah, don't talk shit about the Catholic Church, kid. I know you've kinda' been indoctrinated, but there's a long history of demonizing and whitewashing on both sides. Just look past that, and think for yourself. Me, I'm Catholic by educated choice. Blindly following gets ya' nowhere."

"Sorry, Mister."

"No problem."

Harry gazed silently at the London nightlife. The V8 purred quietly. City lights passed by gold and white and blue and green and red. The pinpoints of light blended themselves into a streak of luminescent color. These were not the only pinpoints of light in the city. For each and every incandescent, fluorescent, or neon light there was a soul of a person out there. Eventually, every last point of light in this grand plan would burn out. Then existence would end and they would be dead and gone. Without a doubt, none of them would get a second chance like Archer. Such were the thoughts which swirled around Harry's head over the car ride. Eventually, the car came to a halt on the outskirts of town. A small church made from ugly grey stone and slate shingles was what awaited Harry.

"Here's your stop, kid. You seem a bit young for this sort of thing, but best o' luck to you. Name's Bobby MacTavish. Try not to die and we might be able to talk sometime. You seem like a good enough kid, if rather quiet."

"Thanks for the ride, Mr. MacTavish."

"Nah, just call me Bobby."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"See you later, kid."

"I'm Harry, Harry Potter."

"See you later, Harry. I've got to go, so you've got to get a ride back on your own."

"No problem. Thanks for the ride again."

The conservative grey Rolls Royce Silver Spirit drove off, kicking up a fair amount of dust. Harry smiled. MacTavish seemed like a good enough guy that he hoped he could meet again. Of course, what a person showed on the outside might not be their true colors, but he had a good feeling about the man. He walked the path down to the thick, oaken doors of the church. He rapped on it once, twice, three times. Slowly, the doors opened.

"Do come in, child. We have much to discuss," came an old and wizened voice.

Harry attempted to peer into the gloom, but he couldn't see much of anything.

"Please come in. It is my job to manage the miracle of the Sixth Heaven's Feel."

Harry peered into the gloom again. He should have been able to see something, but with the new moon, the stained glass windows were not pouring light into the church. He could make out a slight reflection of light off eyes from the shadowy, flickering candlelight. Taking a deep breath, Harry crossed the threshold. His shoes made a loud noise as they touched down upon the bare stone floor. Archer moved to follow him.

"Child, your Servant cannot cross the threshold. This is a neutral ground. Defeated Masters may take refuge in my church. To allow a Master and his Servant upon this holy ground would compromise the neutrality of the supervisor's position, something I take quite seriously."

Harry gave a nod to Archer, who reluctantly waited at the door.

"Your Servant seems to be quite reluctant," said the man, chuckling.

"Why did you bring me here, Father?"

"Give me a moment, child. I'm going to turn on a bit more light for the two of us. You can't have a truly good conversation when the two parties can't see each other."

Footsteps sounded as the man moved around toward something, presumable a light switch. Hanging fluorescents flickered on one after another throughout the length of the church. The entire room was bathed in an artificial light. Somehow, the candlelight felt more comfortable, but this seemed to rip open his mind and bare all his sins. He was able to take a good look at the priest now, but the harsh, white light didn't seem to have the same effect on the priest. He was dressed in the black garb of Catholic priest as was to be expected. Grey hair was combed back neatly on a wrinkled and wizened head. He was clean-shaven, a remarkable contrast to the long, wild length of Dumbledore's beard. Dark eyes glinting with intelligence examined him from behind round, silver-framed glasses. These eyes pierced through him like a lance. There was none of the sensation of Legilimency, but the man simply did not need it to penetrate the depths of his soul.

"Umm... Father, what's your name?"

"Hill, Nathan Hill. Now I have a question for you. Please allow an old man his idiosyncrasies, but were you baptized Catholic."

"No, Father. I'm not sure if I was baptized, but I think I was baptized Anglican. To be honest, I don't really practice."

"A shame... At least you are an honest child. Now let's sit and talk business," said the elderly priest, who went off to grab a pair of folding chairs for the two of them to sit face to face in the middle of the aisle.

"Much better, wouldn't you say?"

Sitting down, Harry agreed with Father Hill.

"Father, would you please explain the Grail War to me. My summoning was an accident, so I don't really know what is going on."

The priest leaned back, considering these words.

"Before I even explain the Grail War. There is an important question that only you can answer: do you wish to take part in Heaven's Feel?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"One you must answer before you continue. The prize of Heaven's Feel, or 'The Grail War' as you call it, is the Holy Grail -not the artifact of Arthurian legend and Christianity, I'm afraid- which is a 'wish-granting machine' for lack of a better term."

"Any wish? No matter how ludicrous."

"Indeed. You must keep it in mind that you essentially have a one-in-seven chance of success. Defeated Masters are often killed, so chances are that you will perish. You might think of yourself as immortal -I know I did at your age- but, simply put, people die when they are killed. The way out of this Sixth Heaven's Feel is quite simple: relinquish your command spells and seek shelter with the Catholic Church, not any of those Protestant upstarts to say nothing of heretics like the Nestorians."

Everything seemed to stop. Harry's heart sounded like the beating of war drums in his chest. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. The priest had said it. He'd probably end up dead. It would be so simple, so damn simple, to simply get out of this thing he. He could go back to school and enjoy his life for a little while and just be a normal teenager. Of course, he'd be thrust into some new situation as he always had, but such normalcy was precious to him nonetheless. On the other hand, to enter this would be of his own free will, a choice of his own. It was just like his sorting into Gryffindor. Unlike his conflict with Voldemort, there was no real reason for him to do this. But his mind then recalled a flash of green light and a woman's scream. That was right; he had always lived with death. It was death the practically defined his existence. His parents were killed. He had brushed with death in the form of the Killing Curse. Cedric had died. At some point, he would kill or be killed by Voldemort. In almost all of the pivotal points in his short life, it was death that followed him around. He already walked with death so often that the reaper was like a dear friend to him. Then there was Archer. The mysterious girl had been brought about as a result of his doing, inadvertent as it was. To go back would completely betray his relationship with her. She trusted him and relied on his commitment. They were already partners. Furthermore, to do such a thing would be to take a step back and retreat. Such a thing was not his way; his way was to go ever forward to new heights without regret.

"Thank you for the offer, Father Hill," said Harry, "But I think I want to stay. What were you going to say about the Grail War before your offer just now."

The priest chuckled at this. He put the teen under a scrutinizing eye before chuckling to himself for a second time.

"You have a strange existence, child, but shall we get on with this?"

"Of course."

"Allow to start from the beginning. At its essence, the Grail War is an auction for the wish-granting machine of the Holy Grail. What is being bet are the lives of the Masters and their Servants. You have been given three command spells. They allow you to issue three absolute orders to your servant. The more specific the order, the more powerful the effect on the servant. For example, if I were a Master, and I told my Servant to 'dodge that blow,' the Servant would almost surely dodge due to the specificity of the command. However, were I to give a more general order like 'obtain the Holy Grail,' the Servant would get a small boost in power but nothing quite like the boost in power of the first example. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Father."

"Excellent. Now, once you use up all three of your command spells, you lack the authority of your Servant you previously had. Should that happen, I suggest not antagonizing your Servant. Now, there are some other rules of Heaven's Feel. All battles must take place at night. No muggle witnesses will be allowed. Also, try to keep property damage to a minimum. Aside from those general rules, this is a battle royale."

"Thank you for your time, Father Hill."

Harry turned around to leave, crossing the threshold.

"Peace be with you," called the priest.

"And also with you."

Father Nathan Hill slowly got up and closed the doors to his church. Quietly he moved the chair back to their original positions. Once he did so, he muttered to himself.

"These London nights will once again ring with the sounds of battle and reek of the smell of blood. It is such a nostalgic feeling."

Back outside, Harry walked out onto the concrete path through the tall grass. Archer materialized next to him. A vexed expression was on her face.

"I overheard some of your conversation. Do you plan on giving up? I understand if you want to, and with my Independent Action, I could find another Master...

"It's alright, Archer. I'm going to see this Holy Grail War through with you."

"Thanks, Harry."

Archer returned to her invisible spirit form. Harry began to simply walk through this area of town. It was sparsely inhabited and quite run down. Only a few houses had lights on, others being clearly abandoned.

"Harry, thanks for sticking around to see this through."

"It's no problem, Archer. In fact, you were part of why I decided to stay."

The walk took Harry and Archer to a park. Tall grass and weeds filled the space. Gnarled trees stood resolutely, stoic to their surroundings. Most of the streetlights were out, only a few providing singular pools of illumination. Everything else was dark. A few rusted swingsets remained, but there were no children. It was decayed and weakened, but it still remained in stubborn defiance of nature. Harry picked out a rusted park bench made from wrought iron and moved to sit down upon it.

"So Archer," asked Harry via thought communication, "What do you think of these modern times?"

"Hmm," began Archer, considering her words, "It feels rather hollow and empty to me. I hate to sound like an old man filled with regrets and nostalgic memories of times long since gone, but in my time, there was a sense of purpose for a man and things seemed to be more real. Of course, you wouldn't understand since you come from this era."

"Speaking of 'your time,' but who exactly are you, Archer?"

"I'm-"

"-Heroic Spirit Nobunaga Oda or Oda Nobunaga depending on how you give the name. Summoned into the class of Archer. Your Noble Phantasms are as follows: Demonic Right of Kings~Demon Lord of the Sixth Heaven, Rank A Support; Brimstone and Hellfire~Implements of Heresy, Rank B Anti-Unit; and Heaven and Hell~Dualistic Blades of the Warlord, Rank C Anti-Unit. Would that be correct, Archer?" came another voice, acidulous and cutting.

Immediately, Archer materialized into her full battle regalia. The twin arqebuses were in her hands, pointing toward the source of the information. A figure cloaked in grey was there, face concealed by the shadows of the cowl and some unnatural glamor. A wand was in his hands, meeting the threat of Archer's twin handguns. A smirk crossed his visible features. Beside him was a girl. She was slightly older than Harry. With her light blonde hair, ice blue eyes, and elfin features gave her an angelic look. She curtsied in her yellow sundress toward the two. The angelic look ended in her eyes, hard and cold like a glacier.

"Allow me to introduce myself," she said with a slight accent, "I am Elise von Schaefer and this is my Servant, Caster. Isn't it amazing what a little scrying can do for you. You are Harry Potter, correct?"

"If I am, what is it to you?" asked Harry, immediately on guard.

"Well, you're the person who I will personally make sure has their guts splattered across the sidewalk."

"Fool," stated Archer, "Putting Caster against one of the knight classes is such incredible idiocy that I'm surprised nobody has splattered you across the sidewalk."

"I wouldn't be nearly so confident," drawled Caster, "After all, I already know all of your noble phantasms. Besides, I know your magic resistance isn't made of the same stuff as that of the Saber class. If I'm a legendary magician, which I am, I can cast spells that can get around your defenses."

"You wizards are all the same, always talking the talk but when the fighting goes down, cold steel always seems to have the last word," returned Archer.

"Pft, amateurs. They always ruin the prestige of the wizard and let meatheads like you think that they are so superior because they fight harder. Lady, I fight smarter, not harder."

Archer's response was to level her arquebus and pull the trigger, sending hot lead at the cloaked Servant. With a sharp crack, just like that of a bullet breaking the sound barrier, Archer disappeared and reappeared, completely dodging the bullet. The sounds of Casters laughter fill the park. With a flourish, Caster shot a bolt of lightning at the scarlet samurai. The air smelled of ozone from the ionized particles. Thunder rolled and pealed. Travelling at least 87,000 miles per second, Archer should not have been able to dodge the lightning, but she did while grabbing her Master, Nonetheless, the attack scorched her armor.

"Heh, not bad," said Archer.

"Same to you," returned Caster insincerely

"Since you already know my Noble Phantasms, there is no problem is using them against you, Caster. Thank you for allowing me to fight at my full potential. Or, as we say in my land, arigato gozaimasu."

"Thanks for the gratuitous Japanese, Archer, but I can really do without it. This is an English speaking country."

"Demonic Right of Kings."

Archer activated her most powerful Noble Phantasm. Unlike her swords or her guns, this Noble Phantasm was not a weapon or item in of itself. It was the power of demon's blood running in her veins which she could tap at will. It conferred a powerful physical boost to her and made her demonic armaments, her arquebuses and wakizashi, deadlier.

"Brimstone..."

The matchlock in her right hand morphed into something altogether more sinister, becoming almost alive. A sickly yellow glow emanated from the weapon.

"Hellfire."

The matchlock in her left hand did likewise. For these demonic arms, there was no need for her to reload. One after another, Archer squeezed the triggers. A cloud of noxious, sulfurous fumes obscured the crimson Servant momentarily. Caster twirled his cloak around him and simply disappeared as the projectiles continued moving to turn a tree to splinters.

"Let's go, Caster. I've had enough of this."

Reappearing, Caster nodded and grabbed his Master before teleporting away to some other location. Archer scowled at their backs and then at the air they had once occupied.

"Master, we're going to need to take them out first. It's simply to dangerous to allow them to live."

Harry nodded numbly, still in shock at this battle of Heroic Spirits. Such a fight was nearly beyond comprehension. At the very least, it was warfare on an entirely different level.

"Yeah. Let's get going before the police arrive," said Harry.

**Interlude**

The circle was drawn. Quicksilver flowed into painstakingly crafted grooves. The spell began. The magician sat down, tomes of mystic lore nearby and began the chant. A few drops of blood were spilled, as was necessary for the ritual.

The door was opened, connecting to a place, for it was a poor term, outside of space and time. A spirit, a famous one was called down from this lofty place to compete in a war of men. Nonetheless, the end goal of this war aligned with that spirit's desire. It could but answer the call to arms. It did so gladly.

The circle began to glow and hum with a frightful amount of power. If were such energy were released, it would be like a bomb going off. The building, no matter how reinforced would be annihilated and men would be ripped apart limb from limb. However, such was the essence of true magic. To deal with higher powers in search of the greatest mysteries was to deal in death. Perhaps this was the sin of magic, the one that caused its persecution by religious organizations.

Almost like particles, magic coalesced for a singular purpose: to create a minor miracle on earth. Creation began, giving form to spirit. Everything was, for the moment, just right. Shining armor and an aristocratic blue. The most noble of kings appeared, a figure of legend. With the king's most famous sword, victory was always assured. Arthur, King of the Britains, had returned to the British Isles. The legends passed down had managed to neglect one minor and altogether unimportant detail concerning the gender of the legendary king. For the king, such a concern was irrelevant. A king was simply a king. The standing king gazed down at the sitting summoner. The summoner was dumbstruck by the glory of the King of Knights.

"I ask of you, are you my Master?"

The summoner dumbly nodded, showing the command seals to the King of Knights. She simply nodded.

"Very well then, I have been summoned into the class of Saber. Let us strive to obtain the Holy Grail."


	3. London Day

In this chapter is the only Master that I think is a bit of a stretch. Also, thanks to Bloodhawk 248 for his beta work.

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**Chapter 3**

**London Day**

Harry ran, footsteps pounding the concrete of the sidewalk. Archer was with him, again in her spirit form as she followed her Master. The blood was pounding a fierce drumbeat in his ears as he ran. Above, the sky darkened with large, ugly clouds the color of bruises. They were swelling with rain. Right now, no moisture fell from the heavens. There was only a sticky, clinging humidity and a still air. It was the calm before the storm. Harry continued to run even as the very first droplets of rain began to splash against the earth. Cold precipitation left him completely and utterly soaked.

"Archer?"

"Yes Harry."

"That shouldn't have happened."

"What?"

"Caster. He shouldn't have been able to just divine your identity and abilities. I don't believe him at face value."

"Hmm," Archer hummed as she considered his words, "I absolutely agree. Something is off about Caster. He knows something."

"Yeah. His Master believes the crap he fed her by the look on her face. Do you think he's a spellcaster that you knew during your lifetime?"

"That's the most likely answer, but appearances often reflect the homeland of the Heroic Spirit. I mean, look at me: I'm Japanese and I'm dressed like a samurai. The clothes he's wearing look a lot like something from Europe back in the day."

"You knew Europeans?"

"Yes. Portugese merchants and a few Jesuit missionaries. He wore almost that sort of clothing, but European wizards always dressed rather anachronistically. Not to say that ours were much better. But you see, that Caster he could be a European wizard from almost any given time. Therein lies the problem with understanding him."

"I think he really hates me. I got a sense of pure loathing in his eyes as he looked at me. What do you think, Archer?"

"I don't know. It's probably the power difference between the wizards of his time and those of now disgusts him, but there's a good chance of there being some other connection."

Harry slowed down to a simple walk. Up ahead was an abandoned warehouse. Plants grew on the walls. Glass windows had been shattered over the years. Somehow, the bilding had managed to escape demolition. A twisted and rusted gate barred the way

"Ah, what about this place, Master?"

Harry smiled at the invisible Archer, or at least where he assumed she was.

"It'll do. It's been a long night and I need some rest."

Through the now-pounding rain, Harry walked. He couldn't help but shiver a bit under the cold liquid. It was almost like a shower or cleansing. He walked up to the gate and began to walk around to see if there were any gaps through which he could enter because the tall, rusting iron was both sharp and protected with rolls of barbed wire. There were none.

"How do I get in?" wondered Harry.

"Carefully."

"Well that's a real load of help," returned the teen. He had more he wanted to add, but he felt himself rising and that same sensation of flying as he arced over the fence.

"Thank you, Archer."

"Of course, but couldn't you have just opened it up with a spell."

"I could, but the magic would be traced and I'd be in more trouble with the Ministry of Magic than I was in before."

Harry walked along the concrete of the walkway to the building. On both sides was a veritable sea of grass and weeds. Why someone would put a lawn by a warehouse was beyond him, though. He moved to open the door, but an invisible Archer kicked it in. He could easily imagine her silly grin at this.

"Hello!" he called just in case there was anyone in there, but his only reply was silence and echoes. He shrugged and walked into the warehouse. There was probably some sort of office in which he could spend the night. Even with the few holes, there was not enough light for him to see. He didn't dare move forward at this time onto a floor covered with a fine film of dust.

"Archer, what do you see? I'm looking for some sort of office."

"I see something. Let's get you there, shall we."

Harry felt Archer sweep him into her arms bridal style. He supposed that it was practical measure to avoid damaging the pauldrons of her her armor as she might with a fireman's carry, but he had a suspicion that Archer really enjoyed reversing gender roles. She had gone down in history as a male warlord after all. Archer was still seemed like a pretty good person. They touched down on the rickety landing of prefab iron stairs. He heard the sound of a door unlocking. Taking his hand, the samurai led him through the open door. He heard the sound of her armor moving. Then there was some light, not much but enough to see.

It was, as he suspected, a small office that would be used by someone to watch over the warehouse's business. The desk was plain and made from cheap particle board. The floor was plain white linoleum. Unsurprisingly, there were no papers or documents on the desk. There was, however, a moth-eaten swivel chair by the desk. Testing its firmness, he sat down. After everything that happened, this was like a feather mattress fit for a king.

Harry sighed appreciatively and turned to Archer, "Thanks."

"No problem."

"Hey Archer."

"What is it?"

"I know that you're Oda Nobunaga, but wasn't he supposed to be a guy instead of well... you?"

A wistful look crossed Archer's face. Harry couldn't help but feel Archer's age, reminded that she was several centuries older than him. She exhaled and smiled in reminiscence of times long past. Happy memories. An age of war. Conquest and trickery. Political intrigue and betrayal.

"Well Master, do you mind spending some time for me to monologue about my life's story, or at least my childhood. By the way, I think you should know that the proper order for my name in your language would be 'Nobunaga Oda.' My own name is 'Nobunaga,' and my clan's name is 'Oda.' It's just that Japanese name order follows a pattern of family name followed by personal name."

"That's not a problem, Archer."

"This might take some time, you see."

"Again, I don't mind."

"Thank you. Back in the Sixteenth Century Anno Domini, as you know it, there was a certain man named Nobuhide of the Oda clan who ruled Owari. He had a daughter which he named Nobunaga. As that little girl grew up, she was more than a little bit of a tomboy. She ran with a crowd of rascals from all classes; some were commoners, others were middle class, and a few were nobles. This little girl and her band of rogues got into all sorts of trouble. She was even titled the 'Fool of Owari.'"

"Okay, but that doesn't quite explain how you came to be known as a man."

"Master -no, Harry- listen, but more importantly think."

Harry racked his brain, trying to think. The Japanese seemed to place a lot on honor, particularly family honor, but Harry couldn't figure out for the life of him how that could relate to Archer coming to be known as a girl.

"The only thing I could think of was that the Japanese think family honor is really important."

"See, thinking is good. That's exactly the right connection. Now think from there."

"I'm really not sure. I'd kind of expect the family to exile the child or just force you to conform."

"Correct. It did not suit a rather prestigious noble clan like the Oda to have a young noblewoman acting in such a rough manner. Now the girl would have, as you said, been forced to conform and act like all the other girls. As they say, the nail that sticks up the most gets hammered down. However, her father, Nobuhide Oda, had something of a soft spot for hisdaughter. So, a secret agreement was made. This little girl was to act and dress like a boy in order to act as she had. Though not ideal, it would be vastly less disgraceful for the clan to have boy who acted like that than a girl who did. That ruse lasted throughout her entire life, even as the demon conquered, armies marching."

"Yeah, I can accept that. Personal testimony definitely beats historians."

In the dim light, Archer smiled. Harry found her grin infections and smiled too. He leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes for a moment. There should have been only peaceful darkness behind his eyes, but he kept reliving that moment over and over again. The only way to end the nightmare was to open his eyes and see Archer watching over him. She should have been sleeping, but her presence was mostly well received.

The hellfire hot lead leaped from the barrel. The sphere was both lead and not-lead, a phenomenon made possible only by a Heroic Spirit. It hurtled, air cracking as it broke the sound barrier with ease. The target was in sight. It slammed into soft bone like a freight train into a puppy. It deformed, turning into a shape much like a mushroom. Nervous tissue was annihilated. It exited through an eye, covered in a gore and slammed into a wall. The difference in pressure caused by this sudden ventilation caused the skull to explode like a ripe watermelon slamming into cement.

Harry's eyes flashed open. He was still there. Archer looked over him like a guardian angel. Again he closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would come.

The silver perfection of the blade swept out in a curving arc. With the ease of a moonlight passing through a pane of glass, the blade passed through the right arm at the elbow. The forearm containing the wand fell down. The blow passed down through the man's abdominal cavity with similar ease. A turn of the wrist sent the sword through the left leg and into the right arm midway through the bicep. The sword then came in a diagonal cut that split the torso in half. A one handed blow passed through the neck, turning a man from one whole into seven pieces.

Harry opened his eyes again. This time, he didn't close them to again relive that instant. Instead he turned to Archer and asked her a question.

"Archer, am I a bad person?"

"Why do you ask?"

"It's this whole killing-people thing."

"What about it? You haven't killed anyone so far."

"Yeah, but I ordered to you to kill those two guys."

"What? You still feel bad about that. I think I understand the type of man you are, Master. You, subconsciously want to be hero, right."

A hesitant nod.

"I really hate to say this because its easy to go down the slippery slope, but imagine your goal. You want to save people, right. Now these men, as you said or at least implied, use terror and murder to inspire fear. Their deaths lead to fewer deaths in the long run."

"But I've got all sorts of blood on my hands now."

"I don't have much room to speak, given that I did use those sorts of tactics. Fear is the mind killer, and if the enemy fears me, then I'll lose fewer soldiers. I look out for my own. Just harden your heart, and deal with it. That's the best advice I can offer."

"I'm worried if killing becomes easy for me. I'd like it to, but what does that make me if I can just kill without a thought like you, Archer? What does it say about me that I summoned you?"

He was crying a bit now. Awkwardly, Archer tried to comfort her master as hot tears streamed down his face. She grabbed his shoulders and sat him up straight. It still didn't work. He was starting to get almost hysterical. So, Archer did as she would have done to a soldier in her army. She backhanded him. His head whipped about; but when he turned back to look her in the eyes, he no longer crying and was focused.

"Thanks Archer, I needed that."

"It's not a problem, Master. I'll admit that I don't feel much of anything when I kill people. It's simply a means to an end. Besides, for someone like you, good-at-heart, there will be a someplace for your soul. Besides, physical death is nowhere near as bad as spiritual death. With spiritual death, you would be gone and soul erased from existence. Only divine intervention could save you then. So, wipe your tears and go to sleep."

Harry smiled, leaned back into the chair, and closed his eyes. Soon he was fast asleep. Archer, having no need for sleep, kept a silent, smiling vigil. It was a restful night.

xxx

"Harry."

"Harry, wake up!"

"Wake up, Harry!"

Groaning, he opens his eyes. Things are blurry and unreal. Archer must have taken his glasses off in his sleep. He sniffed and thought about how much he smelled. He smelled quite bad from a mixture of sweat and blood.

"Just a second," groaned the teen, sitting up. He began to fumble and grope around before a familiar object was placed into his hand. Quickly, he put on the black glasses. Through the blinds, the light of rosy-fingered, early-born dawn filtered through. Archer was still there, that image of Japanese military tradition in timeless stasis.

"Thanks, Archer."

"No problem. How are you today?"

"Much better. Umm, about last night, thanks."

"It's just my job. More importantly, there's someone outside. Right now, he's not moving. I think he know we're here and knows to keep a wide berth from Servants. There aren't any Servants nearby, so I don't think he's a Master."

"Woah, you can detect other Servants!"

"Correct."

"Why couldn't you detect Caster last night?"

"I think that his cloak was some sort of Noble Phantasm. He might also have Presence Concealment skill like the Assassin class if stealth was part of his legend."

"Okay, so how far out can you detect other Servants? And what are some of the Servant skills that you just mentioned?"

"My own Servant skills, those that I receive from my class, are Independent Action which allows me to act without your magical energy for some time and Magic Resistance which let's me resist all magic that only has less than two lines of incantation. Some of my personal skills are Military Tactics, Disengage, and Charisma.

The skills of the Saber class are Magic Resistance to a degree that lets Saber be effectively immune to magic. The Saber class's other class skill is Riding which lets Saber supernaturally enhance a 'mount,' something rather vaguely defined as 'something that can be ridden.'

The skill of the Lancer class is Magic Resistance but to a lesser extent than Saber.

The skills of the Rider class are Magic Resistance, usually to the weakest extent, and Riding to a vastly greater extent than the other classes. They would tend to have some sort of mount as their Noble Phantasm to act in synergy with this skill.

Caster's class skills are Territory Creation and Item Construction. Territory Creation allows them to alter the land to suit their magic and Item Creation allows them to, as you might guess, create magical items.

Assassin's skill is Presence Concealment which allows him to slip past the detection skills of other Servants.

Berserker's skill isn't really as much of a skill as it is an ability. It is called Mad Enhancment. What it does is increase the physical power of the Servant at the expense of their sanity. I suppose it is somewhat like my own Demonic Right of Kings~Demon Lord of the Sixth Heaven, except that doesn't take away my sanity."

"So, how do you know all of this?"

"It's my connection with the Grail. We receive some knowledge from the Grail when summoned."

"Alright."

Harry stood up and walked over to the blinds. Using his fingers, he opened up a crack to take a peak outside. There was a man standing by the fence. He waiting, simply waiting. This man was dressed in a black, pinstriped three-piece suit with black leather Oxfords. His shirt was a plain grey and the tie also black. He had a full beard of white hair and a head of similar hair. Half-moon spectacles, gold rimmed, hung from his nose. Those piercing blue eyes could belong to no other man. Despite the change in hairstyle, this was without a doubt Albus Dumblefore.

"Archer, that's Professor Dumbledore from Hogwarts. I think you saw him in passing against Voldemort, right?"

"I did, but I wasn't quite sure about him at the time, Master."

"I'm going to go out there and meet him."

"As you wish, I'll be there to back you up just in case things turn 'pear-shaped.' Your language has some weird -but fun- idioms."

"I'll bet Japanese has its fair share of similar idioms."

"It does. Would you like me to teach you some of them later?"

"That would be fun. Sounds like a great way to spend an afternoon or something."

"Alright, let's go meet him."

Harry moved to stretch a bit, working the kinks out of his back and neck and shoulders. Then he began to walk. The warehouse was still gloomy and dark, but he could see well enough to navigate through the mess.

"Say Master, would you like me to carry you once more?" asked Archer facetiously.

"I think I can handle myself, Archer."

"Of course."

Quickly, he walked over to the door as Archer disappeared into incorporeal her spirit opened it and waved at Dumbledore. Harry wave was returned by the smiling old man. He walked out across the path and called out to the Professor.

"Hello Harry, what a pleasure to see you again," greeted the old wizard kindly.

"You too, Professor. Fancy meeting you here."

"I'm well aware, quite well aware," said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling happily, "Isn't it a wonderful day."

It really was a great day. After last night's storm, everything had cleared to beautiful sky tinged with gold. It was as if Eos had outstretched her rosy digits across the sky. Nonetheless, red in the morning meant that another storm was coming in. It was just the London weather. Right now, though, a pleasant breeze passed by him. The temperature was neither overly hot nor overly cold.

"How have you been, Professor?"

"Aside from that scuffle with Voldemort and having to deal with Fudge, I've been doing rather well. How about you, m'boy?"

"I've been doing well for the most part, myself. Right now, a shower and hot meal would be like ambrosia and nectar for me."

"I see that you've learned to appreciate life's simple pleasures; it's a very important skill to have."

"Of course."

"So, how does a night in Diagon Alley and a train to Hogsmeade the next morning sound to you?"

"Honestly, I would prefer to get back as soon as possible. I would really hate to become really behind for the O.W.L exam."

"You've got a good head on those shoulders, Harry. If time of such essence, then I can arrange for a ticket this afternoon at 3 o' clock."

"That would be great, Professor. Thank you."

"It would be my pleasure. Now let's make you presentable."

A few quick cleaning charms left Harry feeling almost as fresh as if he'd just showered.

"So," began Dumbledore, "What would you say to breakfast? I know a wonderful little French cafe in the area. In fact, it's within walking distance."

"I would say that it sounds great."

"Splendid!"

They began to walk around the neighborhood. It was much less threatening in the sunlight than in a dark, stormy night. As he had for the past night, he could feel Archer's reassuring presence. Even at the edge of his mind, there was a vestige of Archer to remind him that she was there. They walked a few blocks calmly and in good spirits. To all the world they would look like a kindly grandfather spending a day with his teenage grandson. They took a right and came across the little cafe. The walls were made from white stucco with exposed wooden beams. Wood shingles painted black covered the roof. The heavenly smell of baking pastries wafted through the air. A few tables and chairs sat outside on a porch under the cover of the eaves. A sign written in fancy calligraphy gave the place its name: Chateu Leblanc. Several customers were already there.

Dumbledore walked through the oaken door inlaid with six panes of glass, ringing a bell as he entered with Harry. The lady behind the cash register smiled at him. Dumbledore gave a friendly wave.

"Good to see you again, Albus. You visit here all too rarely. Please seat yourselves wherever you want. Someone will be out to wait on your table shortly."

"It's good to see you too, Grace. How have you been?"

"I've been doing well. Things have been going well for the family too."

Dumbledore smiled and nodded. They soon selected a booth near a window for the two of them. The upholstered seats were quite comfortable. Soon enough a waiter, a young guy whose nametag read "Edward." Harry ordered an crepe with eggs and spinach and coffee while Dumbledore ordered a plate of four beignets with cafe au lait "New Orleans style." The drinks arrived first, Harry added some sugar and cream to his coffee. Dumblefore added no sugar to his drink, saying that the beignets had more than enough sugar to compensate. Harry conceded the point as he laid eyes on the beignets for the first time, mouth watering at the sight of the fried French dough nuts covered in powdered sugar. His own plate arrived. The two men dug into the tasty breakfast, enjoying the food in amicable silence.

"Let's not dawdle on pointless things, pleasant as they may be. I want to discuss one particular thing with you: Heaven's Feel."

A sharp intake of breath from Harry.

"You know?":

"Indeed, I was a Master in the Fifth Heaven's Feel, the Long Grail War. It lasted 293 days from 1945 to 1946. Enough about me, I want to talk about you. Firstly, do you still have the prophecy?"

"Yes sir, would you like it?"

"Yes please."

Harry handed over the sphere to the old man.

"Professor, what are the contents of the prophecy?"

"They are the words that brought you onto your path:

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies . and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not . and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives . the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ._"

"Really?"

"Really."

"It's self-fulfilling anyway. Even if I hadn't heard it, I'd still want to stop Voldemort. Besides, I've got bigger fish to fry like Heroic Spirits."

"I think you've grasped what most people have a hard time understanding. Prophecies are only what we make of them. Not even Voldemort learned that."

"So, if you were a Master, which Servant did you summon?"

A wistful smile crossed the wizened man's face before he answered, "A fair and radiant maiden who sacrificed everything to become a king, Saber. In the end, it was myself and Saber against the King of Heroes Gilgamesh and Grindelwald."

"She sounds like something else."

"She was the only woman I ever truly loved," said Dumbledore before turning back to seriousness, "Since you are participating in the Grail War, I assume your Servant will be following you. There will be no fighting within the walls of Hogwarts. I will not allow innocent bystanders to be hurt in this brutal contest."

"I understand, sir."

"Did you know that the Grail War can change your life? It changed mine," said Dumbledore, suddenly changing topic.

"How so, Professor?"

"Well, you see. Before the Grail War, I was much more of a moral relativist than I am now. For Grindelwald and myself both -we had been friends-, there was a sense that lesser evils were inconsequential if they were to bring about a Greater Good. But then, then I saw the horrors and brutality of the Grail War. I saw the clash of Earth's greatest heroes in all their flawed glory for the chance at a wish, none of them every thinking they would be the dead one until that day came. I saw where the Greater Good had taken my beloved Saber. Most of all, I saw the Greatest Good, the Holy Grail. I rejected it. I rejected it for the mountain of evils that brought it into the existence."

"What about the wish?"

"I ordered Saber to destroy the Grail, thinking that perhaps her Noble Phantasm would cleanse it. I'll warn you, the Grail is simultaneously the most beautiful and loathsome thing in existence."

Dumbledore finished quietly and went back to the vestiges of his meal. Harry did likewise, mulling over the great wizard's words. Archer was silent, taking in the very same words.

xxx

As he had promised, Dumbledore had procured a ticket to the three o' clock train to Hogsmeade. The amber light of the afternoon filtered through the panes of glass of the ceiling of Platform 9 3/4. There were some people here but not many. Soon enough, Harry found himself sitting on the train in one of the comfortable leather seats. Harry leaned back to rest for the long journey.

"Master, there is something very important for you to know," communicated Archer mentally with an uncharacteristic trepidation. Something had her worried.

"What is it?" asked Harry, worry creeping into his voice.

"There's another Servant here. It's a powerful one."

"How do you tell?"

"The Servant is carrying some holy relic anathema to my demonic heritage. It's carrying a sense of overbearing power and majesty."

"Well, shit."

Harry took in this revelation silently. It was all he could do to simply look at the inside of the cabin, looking at the green wallpaper slightly peeling at the edges. He tried counting all the screws he could find, and it did work somewhat to soothe his nervous.

"They're moving, Master. They have obviously sensed us."

His heartbeat grew faster. He could feel the each nervous second slip past. He knew they were drawing near. Yard by yard. Foot by foot. Inch by agonizing inch. They were coming to him and Archer. More accurately, they were going after him and Archer.

"Here they come, Master."

The doorknob turned as someone on the other side began to enter. It was an instant that seemed like an eternity to him. His heart was pounding like war drums in his ears. That eternity was what he needed to calm himself down for his second Servant confrontation. The door then swung open. Two people walked in.

The first person to walk in was a pretty redhead with blue eyes. She wore the standard black Hogwarts robes. In contrast to to the scarlet and gold of Harry's own Gryffindor uniform, she wore the yellow and black of a Hufflepuff. He knew her from Hogwarts; she was in his year, but he found himself incapable of coming up with a name at the moment.

The other person, another girl, was something else. Her eyes were the first thing that he noticed, deep green pools of a green like that of a dragon which threatened to crush him under its power. Her hair was golden like a field of ripe wheat. Nonetheless, her hair reminded him of a lion's main. He could also feel something from her, a primordial power that made him want to bow down to her like a serf to king. This girl was dressed in a navy blue jacket and skirt alongside a white blouse with a blue bow. She was obviously the Servant. In the back of his mind, Harry could feel incorporeal Archer feeling similar things.

"Harry! What are you doing here?"

He should have recognized her voice but he still didn't. It rhymed with "Loans." Bones! That was it. This was Susan Bones. He was talking to Susan Bones, the Fifth Year Hufflepuff who had joined Dumbledore's Army. He then had a moment to come up with a decent answer which definitely had to be a lie.

"I needed to go off campus for a bit," said Harry, "There was some family business I needed to take care of, but it didn't quite work out. What about yourself?"

His statement was partially a lie and both knew it. Nonetheless, she went along with his sham.

"Like you did, I took care of some family business."

Susan gestured to the blonde girl beside her who looked only slightly older than either of them.

"This is my cousin, Penny. She's a squib, but my family wanted me to bring her with me to Hogwarts where things would be safe. Please be nice to her."

It was a lie. It was a damn lie. Both of them knew it; but accepted it anyway, hoping to  
avoid a confrontation between friends or at least friendly acquaintances.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Penny," said Harry offering a hand to her. Penny smiled and gave him a firm handshake of her own. Harry idly noted that the color blue seemed to suit her quite well.

"Nice to meet you too, Harry..."

"Potter. Please don't let all the rumors about influence you. Just look at me for who I am. That would be wonderful."

"I'll try to keep that in mind, Harry."

The blonde smiled. Harry could sense Archer at an edge. He could also see a certain tenseness in both Susan and "Penny." So, he decided to ask an innocent enough sounding but altogether probing question based on a hunch from his earlier conversation with Dumbledore about Heaven's Feel.

"You look like a real fencer, Penny. What do you fence? Saber?" he asked.

It wasn't much of a reaction, but it was there and just enough for him to add to his suspicions and gut instincts about this mysterious girl.

"Good going, Master," communicated Archer, "You should have seen the look on her face when she couldn't tell whether or not 'saber' was direct address or simply part of the question. I do believe that we have found Saber. We do need to confirm it at a later date, but I rewarded that sort of initiative when I was the commander of my armies."

"Thanks, Archer. It's even better, though. I've got just the tool to confirm it at Hogwarts. Of course, it's pretty obvious that she suspects me, sensing you."

Susan snapped her fingers.

"You were getting spaced-out there."

"Thanks, I needed that."

"Well be quiet for a bit, my cousin is going to answer you."

"I'm not really interested in fencing per se," began the blonde girl, "Fencing is simply a watered down form of swordfighting. I greatly prefer what you would call Historical European Martial Arts."

"Thanks. That's really quite interesting."

"So how did you guess I was a fencer?" asked Penny or "Saber" as he had mentally labeled her.

"It was just a wild guess of mine, nothing more.

"So Harry," began Susan, "who did you meet?"

"I saw Professor Dumblefore recently and took a ride around London with this guy named Bobby MacTavish who had a nice Rolls-Royce. Aside from the obvious, what about you?"

"Just my aunt and grandfather."

In spite of himself, Harry found that he enjoyed the idle chatting over the train ride. It was almost a shame to part ways once they arrived late in the evening at Hogsmeade.


	4. Hogwarts Nights

Sorry for the wait. I've been caught up with my exams which finished today. I apologize personally for any spelling errors, grammar errors, or typos.

This version of Dumbledore is such a badass and so much fun to write.

Reviews are very much appreciated. Reader response definitely motivates me more to write. Thanks.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**Hogwarts Nights**

She knocked on the door. It was late at night, past midnight. None of the other spirits around the castle would dare to challenge her, feeling the spiritual power. Though it was a risk, she had cast away the clothes she wore as part of her disguise. The blue armored dress was but one sign of her office. Flickering familiar torchlight, cast shadows as she walked in solitude. She had a meeting with that man. That man, the one who had denied her salvation. Nonetheless, there was a great deal of respect for him.

Having been around him for so long, she could get a general idea of his location, but the directions were more useful for her purposes. She hated to deceive her Master, but it was necessary for this. She came to the gargoyle barring entry. It would have been her right as king to come barging into the room, but that was no way to greet him.

"I wish to see Dumbledore," she said, speaking to the gargoyle. There was no response, but she could feel the ancient magics in action. If he was there, he would know of her presence. So, she stood and inhaled and exhaled. She was willing to accept this.

The gargoyle slid aside, almost like a herald broadcasting her arrival. She didn't want to think of her arrival as being broadcast. She wanted to share a few peaceful days before the Hell of the Grail War began. However, Hell was not an accurate descriptor because, even in Hell, the good were spared. Not so in the Grail War.

She walked forward, boots sounding on the floor. These sounds were then muffled by the Persian rug on the floor of the office. The fire was warm and cheery, even if somewhat unnecessary in the warm summer night. There, sitting in a chair by the fire, was that man. Albus Dumbledore was his name. He'd trimmed his beard compared to what she remembered. Even all these decades later, there was a certain timeless quality to the man. He looked her in the eyes.

"Tea, Saber? Please make yourself comfortable."

"Yes please. Thank you."

Saber pulled up another chair, and seated herself in the comfortable leather and wood. It had that comforting smell of ages. She allowed herself a small sigh. They had enjoyed similar nights in what was Earth's darkest hour by the day's reckoning. He was a father figure, a friend, a comrade, and a mentor. Albus Dumbledore was a very unique person.

She heard his dress shoes as he came back with a pair of tea cups and saucers. The two of them both took their tea without sugar or cream, so no other things were brought.

Saber took an appreciative sip. It was the perfect temperature, near scalding. Even after all these years, he still remembered. The tea that he had prepared was slightly different from the normal grey tea that they had shared. This was a Chinese green tea. She had indeed sampled it before, but had not expected this to be the tea that he served. The fire crackled warmly in the somewhat amicable silence.

"How have you been after all these years, Saber?" asked Dumbledore softly.

"Things have been like a dream, especially my memories of this time."

"Ah. I see. Shall we reminisce like a pair of old folks."

"We are old, Dumbledore."

"Do you remember destroying the Vimana?"

"Yes."

She could practically feel the wind racing around her much like the winds cloaking her sword. The twin Rolls-Royce V12 Merlins purred like a tiger. Magic was enshrouding and reinforcing her platform. Up ahead was the golden flying machine of ancient India. It was like a joust but in midair with much greater consequences. It was her authority against his. Her only companion was down in the cockpit, separated from her by a layer of ballistic glass.

"Yes."

"Ah. That was something else. I wish we were still as close as that time, but things seemed to drift apart."

"I think that you lost your way to another ideal."

Dumbledore sipped his tea.

"That's not it. It's the Grail, isn't it."

"Yes. Yes, it is."

Saber took a sip of her own tea. It was growing lukewarm now."

"What would you have done with the Grail, Dumbledore?"

"After seeing it, I would destroy it. Before then, I suppose that I wanted the world to become a paradise unachievable by mortal means. Nowadays, I don't really think in such sweeping terms, but I had a dream like every boy."

"That you did," said Saber, laughing, "I wish it had stayed. It was that dream which made you a cut above the rest, the wheat separated from the chaff. It just seems that you threw away what made you special. If you'd kept on that way..."

"Yeah, I know."

Saber gave him a slight smile. The wounds were still there, but she couldn't bring herself to hate the man. They both had paths which had changed radically after intersection. Hers had remained straight but his had veered away from that intersection.

"Good night, Dumbledore."

"Good night, Saber. Victory is already promised."

She laughed and walked from the office. For his part, Dumbledore sighed as she left. She was the only woman that he could ever truly love. Whenever he saw another, they would simply fall from the standard set by Saber. If only he'd been born a few centuries before.

Morning followed. Harry could feel Archer's presence at the edge of his senses. He put on his glasses. Dawn's light crawled in through the windows. The samurai sat at the edge of the bed. At this moment, the armor was gone, and she simply wore a plain kimono of red and black. She looked so much like a girl than a warrior with the layers of bulky armor gone. She had a faint smell of ashes, almost like that of a smoker. However, the smell was not nearly as unpleasant. If anything, it was almost like the sinister version of incense.

"Good morning, Master."

"Good morning, Archer," he whispered, "Do you mind turning around? I'm going to get dressed."

She chuckled before quietly acquiescing.

"Thanks you."

"Don't worry. I'll keep watch."

He could easily imagine her smirk with her back turned. He couldn't bring himself to be annoyed by his Servant even if he wasn't particularly fond of smirking people like Malfoy or Snape. Harry quickly dressed himself in his Hogwarts uniform and freshened up. Archer disappeared from his vision. She must have seen someone begin to rouse.

"Mornin' 'Arry!" came Ron's voice, "I was wondering when you'd get back. Obviously it wasn't like Hermione, Luna, Ginny, Neville, or me."

"I ended up going out on my own and spending a night in London. Dumbledore found me the next morning. We ate breakfast, and I got an afternoon train ticket."

"That's nice. After having to deal with Fudge, bloody incompetent he is, we flooed back to Hogwarts. I've got a question for you. My sister mentioned something about this strange Japanese girl who followed you around. Killed the shit out of a pair of Death Eaters, or so I heard."

"Well, shit," was the mantra repeating itself inside Harry's mind. He doubted that the priest, Nathan Hill, would take kindly to him revealing the Grail War to outsiders even if they were magical. Father Hill had managed to find him out of all the teaming masses of people, schools of human fish. It would come as no surprise if the priest was able to monitor him and probably Susan Bones at Hogwarts. It's not like the school had the same sort of worldwide resources that the Catholic Church did. The only people who might be able to match them would probably the Muslims, but they didn't seem to be nearly as organized or entrenched as the Roman Catholic Church.

"It's complicated. It was a spirit that had been in the Department of Mysteries that was sympathetic to me for her own reasons. She's not here right now. She just disappeared into thin air."

Technically, none of this was an overt lie. There was a great deal of omission and fudging of details. However, the secrecy of the Grail War was not something he would compromise. He would especially not compromise it after that fight with Caster and Elise. To intervene in a battle between Servants, as his friends would do with the best intentions, would end up with their deaths. As much the lump in his throat pained him, the all too real image of their broken bodies as a result of getting involved in the Grail War pained him more.

"That's strange. Ginny said that the girl could mess with the real world. Blew off a Death Eater's head and cut another one apart. That's not your run-of-the-mill spirit."

"Yeah. Archer was a strange spirit. I suppose that's why she was locked down there in the Department of Mysteries."

"Makes sense. Don't see why you call the spirit an archer. According to Ginny, it used guns and swords."

"Beats me. That's just what she referred to herself as being. I half remember from muggle school about Japan. Their knight, the samurai, were trained in archery. I guess that's the place from which the whole 'Archer' thing originates."

"Whatever," said Ron, "It works for me. I'm sure there's room for one more in our merry band of adventurers."

Harry laughed at his choice of words.

"Thanks, Ron. If I see her, I'll tell her about your offer. Heaven know we need a bit more firepower."

Ron laughed.

"If what Ginny said is true, we'd have more than enough firepower."

"Too true. Too true."

Harry thought back to the lightning unleashed by Caster. Right now, he hoped that Archer had enough firepower to deal with the other Servants in the Grail War.

"Alright. I'm going down for breakfast. You should come quickly," said Ron.

"I'll be down soon. I'm going to pack quickly."

"See you later."

Harry did actually pack for class. He also pulled out the Marauder's Map. He quickly scanned for the Hufflepuff dorms. It was just as he thought. Next to the little dot labeled "Susan Bones" was another dot. It was originally something else, but that had turned into a more readable "Saber."

"Very, very nice," purred Archer, "So many tactical opportunities. What I would have given for something like this on my campaigns..."

"It's a real help. Well, we know that Saber is here. Do you think you could beat her?"

"Perhaps. It would have to be an oblique strategy. I could feel just how powerful she was. There is no way I could defeat her directly. Hand-to-hand is practically out of the question. The best bet would be to simply assassinate the Master from far away. They are a good deal squishier than the Servants."

"I know her. She's a good person, and I really don't want to kill her. Her relative is one of the few people in Minister's cabinet with some shred of integrity."

"I'll be blunt; you're not ruthless enough. If you don't want to do that, it would probably best to try to make an alliance with Master of a another powerhouse like Berserker. This is assuming that Berserker's Master doesn't want you dead like Caster's."

"Yeah. Of course, we all probably want each other dead. Or at least the Servants."

"We want a wish and won't let anyone get in the way. It's that simple."

"Yeah, Archer. It is."

"Don't worry, Harry. I'll be very close."

Harry couldn't tell if she was serious or making an innuendo. Still, she was pleasant and generally enjoyable to be around. Perhaps it was the natural charisma which allowed her to command armies to crush the enemies before her in Feudal Japan. Sighing, he walked off to break the nightly fast.

The castle's Great Hall was filled to the brim as normal. Bright sunlight illuminated dust motes here and there. Harry noted the additional tapestries. They seemed to be almost like tarot cards. One portrayed a knight with bow and arrow. Another a mounted warrior. A third portrayed a knight wielding a long lance. A further tapestry held a wizened magician. Another held a death-faced killer. A sixth held a wolf-faced warrior like those seen in Viking depictions of berserkers. Above all, hung above the image of a radiant knight of the sword. Dumbledore had done some redecorating that was undoubtedly for those involved in Heaven's Feel.

From the table of the snakes, there was less vitriol. It really wasn't less overall vitriol but less vitriol directed at him. For one reason or another, Harry did not spy a certain blond head in the crowd. It was suspicious. Instead, he focused on his plate of coffee and beignets which he had found as a surprise. He could practically see Dumbledore winking to him from the faculty table. He dug in with gusto.

"You should let me materialize, Master," stated Archer.

"Why?" returned Harry through their mental communion.

"Just because I don't need to eat doesn't mean that I don't want or like to eat. I've never had British food before."

"Seriously?"

"Some of it does look rather bland or much too sweet, but I really want to have some. Besides, look at Saber over there. She's digging right in!"

Harry looked over to the Hufflepuff table where Saber or "Penny" was eating heartily. She seemed so comfortable in this setting. There was a certain familiarity in her movements that could only be gained by years of repetition. It was elegant but proud. Harry began to idly wonder how Archer would eat.

"You see! You do want to know how I eat! So~ let me materialize and eat breakfast!"

Evidently, he had been thinking too loudly.

"Maybe later, Archer. Besides, I could cook something for you. I'm not half-bad. I would venture to say that I could cook a greater variety than just English food. I can do a little bit of Italian, Spanish, and French. If you'd like, I could even try my hand at Japanese, but I doubt it would be much good."

"I will hold you to that promise," stated Archer ominously.

A voice snapped him back to reality, or at least away from the vengeful samurai. It was Ginny, the only person at Hogwarts besides Dumbledore to see Archer.

"Where did Archer go?" she asked quietly.

"She's not here at the moment. She disappeared into something more incorporeal. I don't think it's the case, but I could imagine that she's still following me around or something."

It hurt him deep in his heart to lie like this with a straight face, but it was for the best. The Holy Grail War would be a devastating conflict.

"Yes, I am indeed 'following you around or something' as you so eloquently put it," said Archer. He could easily imagine her covering up a smirk.

And so, the continued normally. There weren't any classes with Susan or "Penny," so he didn't see them. In Potions, it was as he had surmised; Draco wasn't there. That had him slightly worried, given his father's connections. Nonetheless, he fell into bed with a relaxed sigh, knowing that Archer was right there to guard him. Cooking for her would be the least thanks he could give to the scarlet samurai. Things remained in this pleasant limbo for the next few days.

It was past midnight. Pale moonlight was blocked by heavy curtains. All was calm and quiet. Silent, the presence slid into the room without detection. This was his specialty, undetected murder. For him, such a reputation was an complete irony since he was caught for his crime and sentenced for his sin. In the end, his greatest punisher was his own self. More silent than death and darker than black, he crawled above the bed containing his mark. Sleeping, the boy looked so peaceful and relaxed. The boy was without a care in the world.

He came into the material realm quickly and silently. As was expected, he was clad in black. His tunic was black. His cloak was black. His belt was black. Sandal-clad feet settled into the proper stance. From behind a bone-white mask, there was no strong feeling about this. There was only assurance that it would validate his sacrifices and sins. The wickedly serrated blade of the sickle was in his hands, ready to reap a life. He raised the sickled up to plunge it into the boy's brain.

There was a click behind him. This was not unexpected. He really should have protested more greatly about this order. It was only logical for the Master to keep the Servant ready and nearby like an attack dog. The ring of steel felt cold against the back of his neck even through the material of the cloak.

"I wouldn't do anything too hasty there. Which Servant might you be?"

"I'm Assassin. I suppose that you caught me red-handed."

"Not quite red-handed, but I prefer it that way. I'm Archer. Are you Hassan?"

"Hassan? Those guys just stole my thunder a few thousand years later. However, I wouldn't be hasty either, Archer."

"Any particular reason, Archer?"

"Since you warned me earlier, I feel obligated to return the favor. I don't want to say much more, but blowing out my brains would end poorly for you."

"What say we take this outside, Assassin?"

"This assassination was practically doomed from the start."

"Were you stuck with a poor Master?"

"He's a pretty good kid, but he's a bit impulsive and doesn't like think ahead. He's too caught up in his own emotions. I'll admit that I'm the same way."

"And the Servant matches the Master."

"Indeed. Shall we clash blades away from the children?"

Assassin disappeared into his spirit form before reappearing outside the window. Archer did likewise, and the two were facing off in the grass around the castle. Twin arquebuses faced a sickle. Sighing, Archer put them up and instead drew the gleaming silver of her katana.

"Can't disturb the children with gunfire, can I."

"Aye. I suppose we both like kids."

"Not really. I was never much of a cuddly type."

"Me neither."

The clash of blades rang in the still night air. Sparks flew as the two blades clashed, one for war and the other for agriculture. Assassin wielded his farmer's tool in a reverse grip. In this respect, it impeded the Servant's offense; however, it allowed him to stand his ground against the more powerful Archer in defense. And powerful she was. The air distorted from the speed at which she swung the sword. With that sword, another advantage lay with Archer, an advantage of range. The short hook-like blade of the sickle could never hope to match the reach of a katana. By all means, Assassin should have died within twenty blows against the superior swordsman.

However, the murderer had his own tricks. He parried the heavenly sword and immediately twisted his wrist, seeking to rip and tear the blade from his adversary's hands. Archer was fast, already beginning to retract the blade the moment she felt the first movements from his blade, but it was too fast. The blade was not wrestled from her grip. Archer was dragged into the murderous short range of the sickle, a place where the reach afforded by her katana was more a liability than a strength. The Heroic Spirit raised a fist and landed and devastating right hook that sent Archer reeling.

Archer relinquished the grip on her katana, allowing the majestic length of curved steel to fly through the air. The second sword at her waist howled for blood. It howled to be released by the demon lord. Archer granted its wishes as she drew the black wakizashi that seemed to drink in the blackness stamped with the kanji characters 地獄 or Jigoku, meaning "Hell." This pair of opposing blades formed Archer's Noble Phantasm, Heaven and Hell~Dualistic Blades of the Warlord. What the unholy blade lacked in reach, it made up for in power. Its nature meshed naturally with demon's blood inside Archer. It sang in her grasp.

Assassin was fast, but not fast enough. The tip of the blade carved open a long scratch along his right forearm which wielded the sickle. On Archer's right forearm, a similar wound appeared. However, this scratch was deeper, longer, and bloodier than the one afflicting her enemy. By her estimate, it was seven times worse than her opponents. Letters scratched into Assassin's mask lit up a deep blue. She somehow recognized the language, Hebrew. She could already gather the meaning. Any harm upon this murderer would be avenged sevenfold. Archer immediately broke apart, jumping far back from her opponent. The gears in her head were turning, recalling what she had learned from European priests.

She uttered a single word while narrowing her eyes: "Cain."

"The one and only, Archer. Though can you think of a more famous murderer than the first murderer -the horrible sin of fratricide at that. The Hassan have nothing on me and my legend."

Archer's response was the slash of her wakizashi. The sickle of gleaming flint held in a reverse grip sparked as it came in conflict with the black sword. The second of the opposing pair of blades broke off to again clash with the farmer's tool. The two blades skittered away from each other, wielders twisting their bodies around for another go. All Assassin had was his skill from years as a vagabond wanderer who had fought against stronger foes with better weapons while all he had was his trusty sickle. Archer had the skill of a warrior who had trained for the battlefield and then passed the baptism of fire with flying colors. She had fought against kama-wielding ninja. However, her opponent was one who had practically invented the style. He did not fall into the traps that Archer would have normally used against such a fighter.

Three slashes cut at the masked murderer. Each one was aimed to kill. One was aimed to slice his throat, a second aimed to open up his belly, and a third to sever the large blood vessels in his legs. Assassin slipped around the three like oil and launched his own offensive against the crimson samurai. His rain of strikes was aimed for a mortal blow with every strike. Archer could not afford to let even one slip past her guard. Neither could she afford to land a good hit on her opponent, but her blood sang out for her to finish him quickly and viciously. Nonetheless, she understood on an intellectual level the danger of this course. The best move would be to find and kill the Master. With Assassin's Noble Phantasm, he would be a very troublesome opponent. No Servant could go all out on him without dying. She needed some scapegoat to fight Assassin and get killed by his divine protection. Preferably, the scapegoat would also kill the family-murderer. Of course, Archer knew that this was somewhat hypocritical for her. She had marched on her family to secure power.

She noticed a familiar magical presence coming, undoubtedly attracted by the sounds of battle. Archer disappeared into her spirit form. Assassin did likewise. The new presence came into the empty courtyard. She came in as a blur of blue and gleaming silver. Though there was no weapon in the girl's hands, a blur of wind could be seen; it was a distortion that took the general shape of a sword.

"Come out, you cowards!" called the regal maiden in blue.

"Not quite my style, I'm afraid," called the disembodied voice of Assassin.

"Not my style either. Sorry, Saber," called Archer's own disembodied voice.

"Well, who are you cowards?"

"Archer."

"Assassin."

Archer saw the grinning death's head in the window, returning to the task of assassinating her Master. Immediately, she went into the room and faced down the black Servant.

"This is such a pain, Archer," said Assassin, sighing.

Archer raised an eyebrow at the original murderer, clamped a hand over her Master's mouth, and dragged him bodily from the bed. It would be much safer to have him awake and near her with Assassin's presence. His eyes opened immediately, and he moved to say something but was muffled.

"Be quiet. It's just a Servant battle. We've got Saber and Assassin here. Now, I wouldn't be surprised if Caster showed up. Don't worry, I'll keep you safe."

Harry simply relaxed. He implicitly trusted Archer. Archer jumped from the window to an outer turret of the curtain walls. From there, she made another bounding leap to a tall pine tree out in the forest. Harry leaned against the trunk from one of the upper branches.

"I can't see, Archer."

She handed him the glasses she had snagged when dragging him to safety.

"Thanks."

Archer gave no reply, instead drawing one of her arquebuses. She balanced the finely made weapon on a branch. The match was burning a dull glow. She pulled back the serpentine of the matchlock. The weapon was cocked, locked, and loaded.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking a shot."

She adjusted the firearm. Archer whispered her calculations. Harry wasn't able to hear much, but he knew that she was only judging the target's location with her ears and then using that to calculate the sort of ballistic trajectory necessary to drop a shot on the enemy Servant's head. By his own estimation, they were at least a mile from the castle. Such a shot should have been an impossibility.

"Sayonara, Saber."

Archer squeezed the trigger. A flock of birds flew into the night sky being roused by the sound of the gun. Harry could barely make out a flash of shimmering lead as the bullet arced over the wall to the clash going on inside the castle walls.

"Hmm... It seems that I missed."

Archer brought the second matchlock to bear.

"It seems that I'll need a bit more firepower."

Archer pulled back the serpentines and smoldering matches with her thumbs.

"Brimstone. Hellfire."

True names unleashed, the paired arquebuses transmuted into something altogether more sinister. Even if he had seen it before during the fight with Caster, it did not fail to unsettle him. There was something intrinsically wrong about them. He could feel the dark power in the air. Archer gave him a cheeky smile, as if to say "Watch this."

Archer unleashed a barrage of evil projectiles. As they were magical weapons, there was no need to reload. Archer would simply fire a shot, pull the serpentine back, and fire again. Choking sulfurous smoke soon obscured Harry's vision. After a dozen rounds of this, Archer ceased fire. When the smoke cleared away, Harry could see some smoke coming from Hogwarts.

"What did you..."

"It just set some grass on fire. No need to worry."

Harry could only nod mutely at his Servant's response.

Archer's eyes looked at the distant castle. Her eyes caught a pair of blurs fighting across the roof. One was black and the other blue and silver. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed intently at Saber. While the knight's armor was somewhat damaged, Archer had hoped that her bombardment would have a greater effect. She had a few deep scratches, likely the courtesy of the similarly damaged Assassin.

"I see you, Archer," called Assassin, "What do you say to a truce to fight Saber?"

"What say you, Master?"

"Might as well. If she finishes off Assassin-"

"She'll be dead courtesy of his Noble Phantasm. Our black-cloaked friend is Cain from the Bible, the one who murdered his brother and was marked to be avenged sevenfold."

"I'd like to knock out Saber quickly. She's too dangerous. When the war really starts, someone else can have the misfortune of dealing with Assassin. I already have a good idea who his Master is, and he is not someone I would mind you dealing with."

"So you do have a coldblooded streak to you! Alright, I'll work with Assassin for a little while."

In a blur of red and black, the warrior known as Nobunaga was gone. She stood up to the petite form of Saber. Archer's eyes were a few inches above the blonde knight's. The twin arquebuses in her hands returned to their harnesses.

"Archer," stated Saber plainly.

"Indeed. I'm much more a ranged warrior, but I can't help but want to cross blades with a legendary swordsman such as yourself."

"You are a strange one, Archer. You have a holy sword and demonic one. You carry yourself like a knight, but lack a knight's pride. You seem to have strange companions."

"Assassin? Naw. While this probably is a bad move tactically and strategically, it's not out of any love for the murderer. I want to cross blades with you."

Archer's hand rested on the sheath of the katana bearing the mark of heaven, thumb pressed against the handguard. She assumed an iaido stance, aiming for a kill on the draw. While the style was originally for the purpose of defense against a sudden attack, there was a certain visceral beauty which Archer admired to the style. But there was something to do first.

Saber held her sword out in front of her, winds kicking up the dirt around her. Her green eyes stared into her opponents brown ones. Her feet were planted firmly in the ground like the roots of a great oak tree, but she was ready to move like a lion out for the kill. She saw a momentary twitch in her opponent, but did not flinch. The Japanese heroic spirit had pulled out her gun and fired. A sulfurous smoke filled the area between the two. The winds surrounding her sword dispersed it in seconds.

"I hope that wasn't a surprise attack, Archer. That was sloppy."

The samurai in red gave a lopsided smile and put the arquebus back into its harness.

"It wasn't. I already said I wanted to clash blades. That's a clever tactic you have there, Saber. You hide the blade of your sword with a barrier of winds. Not only does it conceal what is likely a powerful Noble Phantasm, it also prevents the opponent from gauging the size of your blade. However, introduce a little smoke into the mix, and you plans of hiding the sword's dimensions go -dare I say- up in smoke."

"Very funny, Archer," said Saber without a trace of humor.

Archer's hand lazily returned to the handle of her katana. She smiled at Saber. The staring contest began. Assassin dared not interfere. He could have gone after Archer's Master, but this was vastly more interesting than his original mission. A leaf full and green blew between the two. Matched expressions of steely focus were on both sides of the leaf. As soon as the leaf came right in the middle of the two, they exploded into action. The leaf left the zone of death in four pieces.

Archer had moved first, being faster than Saber. The quick silver of the katana flowed like water to target Saber's armpit and carve into her lungs. The invisible air moved to smash down diagonally through Archer's pauldron and exit out her side. The two met and negated the other's force. Of course, the Knight of the Sword was at an advantage against the Knight of the Bow. However, Archer had fought against swordsmen more skilled than her. It was an insane tactic. When Archer's blade clashed against Saber's, Archer fought more against the other Servant's blade than the Servant.

Heaven and Hell~Dualistic Blades of the Warlord were not chosen by Oda Nobunaga for their mere beauty. These two were as unshakable and unbreakable as the two realms for which they were named. Neither of these blades could be sundered. It was this quality that allowed for the success of this insane method of sword combat. It was this quality that allowed for Archer to stand against Saber.

Sparks flew between the grinding hurricane and the divine steel. The two swordsman, one Western and the other Eastern, were engaged in a battle of wills and strength. The blades met hundreds of times over the next few seconds, both being equally matched. A rushing wind filled the battlefield as air flooded back into the wall of vacuum created by the dispersed air of the clashing blades. For Harry watching in the tree, it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

"They're something else..." murmured the teen, trailing off.

"They are, aren't they," assented another voice.

Harry turned his head to see death's visage. Ebony robes fluttered in the breeze. The shadowy figure was perched like a gargoyle next to him. The murderer seemed relaxed as he watched the fight.

"Aren't you going to help, Assassin?"

"Are you kidding me? Look at that. Not only would it be suicide for me, one who is not good at head-on confrontations, but do you really want it to stop."

Harry turned his gaze back to the battle at hand. Assassin was right; it would be shame for such a beautiful clash to end so quickly. Almost resentful at the cloaked man's correctness, he nodded to the Biblical character in agreement. He noticed blood dripping from the stone sickle.

"Whose blood?" asked Harry.

"There was a witness to this. Note the past tense."

Even though every fiber of his being railed against this, he couldn't help but chuckle a little at the absurdity. It was wrong. An innocent bystander whose only crime was location had died. He chuckled all the same at Assassin's dark humor.

Once the laughter died down, Assassin continued, "I was pretty nice about it. It was just a single strike to the spine to allow for a painless and fast death."

"I'm going to assume that you are rather well-versed in such attacks, seeing as that was how you murdered your brother."

"Honestly, I could -and probably should- murder you on the spot for talking about that. You're right; I am an evil man. I forgot that I was my brother's keeper. The big brother is supposed to look out for the little one, but I killed my little shepherd brother anyway."

The two swordsmen backed off temporarily. As if sighing in relief, wind rushed back to a normal pressure quite unlike the veritable cyclone between the clashing blades. Saber was stoic, and Archer still smiled lazily.

"That was quite a duel, Saber. Thank you for such a good sword fight. It's been a while, and this sword arm needs to stay strong. I can't just rely on my marksmanship."

"I still think that you lack a knight's pride, Archer. However, there was another pride in your strokes. I think I misjudged you."

"I'm sorry, Saber," said Archer, backing further away and drawing the twin matchlocks. The matches trapped in the serpentines glowed ominously. Saber frowned slightly at her opponent's actions.

Her eyes widened in shock as the ragged and jagged edge of a sickle came for her neck. For Saber, there was only one option: act on instinct. She threw herself away from Assassin's black blade and used the buffeting winds held in her hands to attempt to blow away Assassin. She was only partly successful, as this move put her right in the firing line of Archer. Saber could see Archer's lazy grin as she held the guns in a tilted grip, but she could see that it was tinged with some regret. There was a certain swordsman's pride to defeat another by the blade. Even if Archer did use those weapons anathema to a hero, she did regret being unable to triumph in a clash of blades. Smoke blasted out as a one of a pair of projectiles broke the sound barrier with ease to attempt to smash through Saber's breastplate and rip apart her torso where the diaphragm met the liver. The other was aimed right between the eyes to smash and deform and blow the brain out the back of the skull. It was a perfect shot pulled off with an inhuman ease. It was an ease that seemed almost infernal.

Saber planted her invisible sword into the ground and whipped about to change her direction. This was only partly successful since the shot aimed between her eyes merely ripped through several strands of hair near her ear and the shot aimed at her torso hit at such an angle that it was deflected by the armor. Of course, the temporarily allied Servants did not relent as Assassin came at her to rip her entrails with that sickle of his. His blow was easily deflected her sword, now pulled from the ground. Rather than fight it, Assassin allowed himself to be sent flying. Archer then fired another pair of shots, these aimed at the kneecaps of the silver-armored knight. Saber immediately jumped back; upon doing so, she realized from the crimson-clad samurai that it was part of a plan to use her instincts against her. The black-cloaked form of Assassin shot forward like bullet ready to rip her apart and gut her. Saber instead grabbed Assassin by the mantle and sent him hurtling bodily into a tall tree which splintered and collapsed at the impact.

Compared to the previous events of the battle, the crack like a bullet was nothing.

"This shall not pass!" cried the man in a thunderous voice.

Dumbledore had arrived. So great was his power and presence that he managed to cow Archer and Assassin. Out of respect for a comrade, Saber too deferred to the old man. He fixed all the Servants and the single Master with a glare.

"Fighting on Hogwarts grounds is prohibited. I hope greatly that you will be able to restrain yourselves in later confrontations. Perhaps if innocents had not been involved in this shadow war, I would have let this skirmish go; however, a certain Argus Filch is dead with wounds that resemble those given by the agricultural tool known as the sickle. While there is not much I can do to you, I warn you that there is much I can do to your Masters. On that note, warn your Masters that I will see them about this incident."

It was insane for a mere mortal like Dumbledore to stand down some of the Earth's greatest heroes, but he did and they listened. Archer returned the weapons to their harness. Assassin put away the sickle into the folds of his robe. The cyclone of Saber's invisible sword died down. They returned slowly to the castle, and the night rejoiced as the clash had been brought to an end. Harry Potter slept a peaceful sleep in spite of the night's events since he knew there was an guardian angel or devil watching over him.


	5. Premonitions of the Storm

Here's a new chapter. It has not been proofread by anyone other than myself at the moment (since my beta is caught up with RL stuff). I would really appreciate it if people let me know where I screw up. At this point, I want to say that I'm about 20-25% finished with this fic. I plan for the Grail War to start in earnest next chapter.

I want to write a good guy Dumbledore in this because evil!manipulative!Dumbledore is, I find, annoying and stupid

Archer is a fun character to write because of the different facets of her personality.

Oh, beware the gun porn at the end. Want to give a reasonable warning

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**Premonitions of the Storm**

Things the next morning were, if emotions could have color, deathly pale. Someone, even if he was one of the most disliked people in Hogwarts, had been murdered. After the paranoia of Umbridge's reign, this was close to being the straw that broke the camel's back. There were already rumors and fear abounding through the halls the morning after. There were to be no classes for the day, as had been posted on various bulletin boards. Harry sat with his friends, putting up a facade of ignorance. He knew exactly what happened; the killer had even joked about with him and he had laughed. It was just more incentive to win the Grail. With Dumbledore's warning and his own personal reservations, he was considering to use the Grail to erase the evils that had allowed for its genesis.

"Ladies. Gentleman."

A clear and powerful voice cut through the haze of noise. It was exactly the commanding, powerful, and charismatic voice necessary for this situation. It was Dumbledore as Harry now knew him, the experienced Grail War veteran who was uncompromising on his principals. There was silence; the floor was his.

"As you may have heard, an incident happened last night for which classes are canceled today. I highly regret this, but Mr. Filch, our faithful school caretaker for decades, has been murdered. I say this to you because I expect a certain excellence from Hogwarts students. I expect you to be able to take this news without panic. I do this because I place my trust in you, the student body. As of now, I will work my utmost to secure the school against further threats. Furthermore, I would like to personally apologize for the incidents that have happened under my watch. I will personally improve the defenses of our beloved school for your safety no matter the cost. Thank you."

He sat down. There was only a stunned silence at this speech. Harry was not surprised. This was the true Dumbledore. However, most students had never heard the true Dumbledore with his conviction and fiery stubbornness. It was only expected that they would pause at his true colors.

The letters then began to arrive. For Harry, there was one to his surprise. Quickly, he opened it up. It was an order -phrased as a request- to report to Dumbledore's office. He could imagine the other people who had gotten the letter; he wasn't stupid.

"Perhaps that's why the Grail selected you as my Master," whispered Archer in the edges of his mind, "I was famed for my cunning and trickery. It would make sense to have a smart Master for a smart Servant."

"Thanks for boosting my ego, Archer."

"Not a problem. There's something on your mind. What is it?"

"It's about last night. Well, I..."

"Just spit it out. Be decisive."

"I want to be able to fight. Back then, I was just helpless. I want to be able to contribute to our victory."

"You can't fight a Servant. A mere human stands no chance against a Heroic Spirit."

"Weren't you human back when you were alive?"

"Partially. I have the blood of demons flowing in my veins."

"But not your arteries, right?"

"You know what I mean!"

"Seriously, Archer. Would you please teach me something like how to use the sword."

"Swordfighting? Huh. I suppose so."

"Was it really that easy for you to decide?"

"You probably stand a better chance than with magic. I'd say that about half of the Servants are magic resistant. Guns, normal ones, wouldn't be too useful -not to mention probably difficult to acquire. However, you might be able to last the second necessary to fend off an attack and call me via command spell."

"I'd rather save the command spells to give you a boost against more powerful Servants like Saber."

"Not a bad strategy, but don't hesitate to call me if your life is in danger. If you die, neither of us can win."

"Just an idle thought, but couldn't you enchant a sword to help against enemies. If possible, I was thinking along the lines of speed and strength augmentation."

"You're the wizard, not me. I don't know."

"Shame. When do you think would be a good time. I was thinking after lunch in the Forbidden Forest. With a Servant, I'm pretty sure I'm safe."

"Thanks."

"Harry, you seem really zoned out," commented Hermione, "Does it have anything to do with that letter?"

"I suppose so," he lied, "I'm not sure what the Headmaster wants to talk about."

Of course, he knew exactly the topic of the discussion. He just needed to lie so they wouldn't get involved. Or such was the mantra repeated in his head.

"Well, breakfast is almost over. You might want to make a head start," said Hermione, shrugging. Harry smiled.

"I think I'll do just that. See you later!"

"See ya,' Harry!"

He waved as he began to walk. He could feel Dumbledore's eyes follow him. The old man was calmly calculating and observing, always ready to take action when necessary. Harry straightened and gave a nod to none in particular. However, he knew that Dumbledore saw it. He hoped the wizened wizard approved.

xxx

As he expected, he found himself in Dumbledore's office with Draco, Susan, and Saber. Archer and Assassin were both nearby in their spirit forms. Dumbledore sat at his desk, cup of tea in hand. There were six additional cups set out. At his behest, the three students each took a cup. Saber had already taken hers and smiled as she sipped at it.

"Let's be friendly here. Would Archer and Assassin also materialize. I didn't go to the trouble of making tea for seven to let it cool down and be full."

It was no request. It was a command. Harry nodded to the empty air and Archer materialized. Much like Saber, she was not wearing her armor or carrying her weapons; she merely wore her fine crimson and black kimono in the same fashion as a man. She took one of the teacups and sipped from it.

"An excellent brew. I'm Archer. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Don't mince words. I know you've been hovering around Harry. I know you've met me, though we haven't been introduced."

Draco gave a nod of his own and Assassin appeared. The cloaked Servant put his sickle down on the desk and took a cup of tea.

"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Assassin but you can call me Cain."

"Most Servants would rather have their true names unknown. Why are you different?"

"As soon as I get hit, the big glowing mark from God shows up and everyone knows who I am. I really don't give a damn."

Draco's face scrunched up as Assassin said this. Harry sympathized; he would have the exact same reaction if his Servant threw around her identity like that. Thankfully, Archer didn't.

"The First Murderer's first action is to murder. How quaint, Cain."

"Well I apologize, insincerely, about that. I was ordered to leave no witnesses."

"The murderer wants to become a hero?"

Cain smiled, closed his eyes, and sighed.

"Yes. I want to become a good man. That is my wish."

"I see," said Dumbledore, now focusing a glare on Assassin's Master, "Why would you order this?"

"The priest said: 'No witnesses.'"

"I see. I highly doubt that those were his instructions. As I recall, the instructions were something like 'No muggle witnesses.' However, the meaning of a general 'no witnesses' was implicit."

The three nodded. They had all figured out the implicit meaning in the instructions. The compliance was up to the Master. While 'no muggle witnesses' was the rule, the killing of other witnesses to the unfolding miracle did not seem like something the priest would frown upon. Of course, such ideas made the priest one of dubious quality.

"Who is this War's administrator?"

Harry supposed that, himself excluded, the others must have been surprised by his knowledge of the Grail War. He would have never suspected it if the man himself not mentioned his involvement.

Saber spoke up, "Father Nathan Hill."

"Hill?"

"You know him," inquired Susan.

"Yes. Allow to explain; much like myself, he is a veteran of the last Grail War or 'Heaven's Feel.' He was the Master of Servant Assassin Hassan-i-Sabbah. I myself was the Master of Saber. Nathan Hill was one of the most ruthless Masters in the last war."

Archer snorted and began to laugh. It was a rough, masculine manner that was not something that one would expect from a girl. Saber's brow furrowed slightly while the corner of her lips turned slightly upward.

"Archer," began the blue knight, "Would you care to explain before you make a fool of yourself?"

"Would you care for the nice version or the honest version, Saber?"

"Humor me with both, please."

"The nice version is that I suspected something was fishy about this man. From what I overheard, he does not sound like any of the Catholics I met, nothing like Francis Xavier. Honestly, I would probably use the same sort of ruthless tactics were my Master not so kind."

"Francis Xavier?"

"Don't ask me," said Assassin, throwing up his hands, "He's after both our times. Never heard of the man.'

"He was a Jesuit who traveled through the Far East. He might not have grasped the language perfectly," Archer began chuckling but continued, "But he had a good spirit. I didn't know him too well, but he was a good man."

"Jesuit?" asked Saber, "I already understand that they are a Catholic religious order, mind you."

"I'm not the best source, but the Jesuits are a religious order founded by a man called Ignatius Loyola. They focus on education and missionary work."

"Thank you, Archer," said Saber.

"No problem, Saber. I suppose we've all got a bit of catching up to do with this time. Especially you, Assassin."

"We aren't stranger here. Call me Cain."

"Ladies and Gentlemen."

Again Albus Dumbledore held the floor.

"As I was saying, there are several rules that I would like you to follow. The Grail War will not touch my school any more than it has. No killing or fighting on campus, not even if people see you manifested."

All present nodded.

He continued, "If you can't follow this, I'll stop you myself."

Harry idly thought that his word choice was a bit odd. The threat was still there. Harry decided to be the better man and extended his hand to the old wizard. Dumbledore grasped it firmly and shook it.

"I can do it, Professor."

Archer then shook his hand.

"I stand with my Master."

The others followed suit.

"I do have a question before we conclude this," said Dumbledore, "What do you wish to do if you obtain the Grail, Masters?"

"I want a just world," said Susan immediately.

"I really shouldn't say this," began Draco, "But I'd rather have Assassin's wish fulfilled than serve family interests."

"As for me," said Harry, "I don't know yet. I should probably get to figuring that out sometime soon."

"Thank you. You may leave now."

And so they left, Archer and Assassin returning to their spiritual forms.

As they left, Albus Dumbledore muttered angrily under his breath, "Hill."

xxx

"What time is it?" asked Harry.

"I don't know. Looks to be a few hours before 10 o' clock," replied Archer.

"Well, I was hoping to get a lunch ready and maybe go out and learn a little swordplay. I do have the day off, after all."

"I wasn't really expecting you to go for that already, but it's you. Don't expect too much actual sword usage. Your scrawny, and I think you need to be in a bit better shape to handle a sword. Don't get angry because I don't mean any harm."

Harry laughed, "No problem, Archer. You know more about swords than I do."

"Where would you find a sword, a katana specifically?"

"I'd make one with magic."

"Right."

Hands in his pockets, Harry wandered off to the kitchen to see if he could get something. He passed through the sunlit halls quietly. People were generally happy to see him, and he returned their greetings in his usual friendly manner. A few turns brought him to the general area, though the changing architecture had lost him a few times. After a quick out of pear tickling, he found himself in the kitchens.

"What do you want?" asked a gruff house-elf with a stained apron.

"Well," began the teen.

"I don't have time for dilly-dallying; just spit it out."

"I'd like a lunch for two, please. Preferably something filling but not rich."

"You teens are all the same," sighed the elf, "You all make these requests for dates. Y'know what, kid. I really don't mind."

"Thanks, what's your name?"

"Robert. You?"

"Robert? I'm Harry/"

"I know you're English, but pronounce it like a Frenchman. Row-Bear."

"Robert."

"Yeah, that's right. Come back in an hour or so and ask for my name. I'll have something nice for you and your girl."

"Thanks,"

"Heh. Don't come crying to me if it doesn't work out. I've been cooking for decades. If things go poorly, I'm pretty sure it's your fault."

"Thanks... a lot."

"Eh, don't mention it. Now let me do some cooking on request."

"I'll leave now."

Harry quickly left the kitchen and overbearing house-elf.

"So I'm your girlfriend, huh?" asked Archer. It was the question he had been dreading, but had been expecting from the spirit.

"I'm just not going to answer that. The answer should be readily apparent to you, Archer. You enjoy teasing me too much."

"I can't help it. You're a hormonal, insecure teenage boy. I'm a rather attractive girl who was remembered as a man. Also, nobody is trying to kill us, so I have nothing better to do."

"I really didn't need that."

"Is this my 'giving a damn' face, Master?"

"Right now, you don't even have a face."

"True. That will change soon enough. I thought you wanted to eat lunch with me and learn some swordplay."

"Well yes..."

"Then it's settled. You'll get to see my wonderful face soon enough."

The teen closed his eyes, sighed, and shrugged. Archer was herself, sometimes silly but sometimes serious. Tiring as it could be, he liked it. Archer was something else entirely.

"I want to show you something, Archer."

Even if she wasn't visible, he could practically feel her happy nod. He surmised that being a spirit must be a depressing experience. To return to the material realm must be like a dream come true for her and all the other Servants. Assassin was like that, trying to make up for his sins with his second chance at life. That was not what he would have expected from the Cain of Bible, but neither would he have expected to be partnered with the famous samurai Oda Nobunaga who was, in fact, a girl. If that were the case, he could only imagine what the other Servants would be like. He hoped it wasn't something ridiculous like King Arthur being a girl; that would be just plain silly.

He walked up to one of the highest turrets of the castle. No other souls were there. There was a small balcony. From here, the deep blue lake and verdant green forest and bright green grass could be surveyed. Little columns of smoke could be seen from the quaint roofs of the village. The sun was behind them, casting a cool shadow on them. The summer air was warm and pleasant and carried by a light breeze.

"Ah. Archer, you can materialize. It's really nice outside right now."

Just like that, Archer appeared, sitting on the railing. Her legs swung out and back. As with before, Archer was not clad in her armor, merely a black and red kimono. She smiled happily. The samurai girl simply rocked in the wind, eyes closed and savoring the feeling.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Archer."

An eye opened, "I'm a Heroic Spirit. Plain old falling wouldn't kill me."

"Yeah, I suppose so. That would be a pretty inglorious death," said Harry as he sat down on the stones.

"You can sit here with me, y'know. I'd catch you if you fell. Part of my job is to protect you from things like that too."

"Sure," acquiesced the teen as he sat on the railing beside Archer. He could feel the summer warmth. More importantly, he could feel Archer's warmth. Rather than a mere phantasm, she was a real living, breathing, flesh-and-blood person. It suited someone as full of life as her much more.

"Say," began Harry, "I'm a really poor Master for you. You said it yourself that I was holding you back from victory."

"You're too kind," said Archer, "But I like you like that. I simply can't help but like someone so much nicer, kinder, and more honest than me. Normally, I'd be jealous, but I'm strangely fine with you. Don't change. You're probably a better person than me."

They sat in a pleasant bliss. The sun was now directly overhead, and Harry's stomach growled like clockwork for the start of the normal lunch period. Archer disappeared back into her spirit form with a sigh as Harry began the long process of walking back down for the lunch that the gruff elf had prepared.

After a short stop in the kitchen, Harry found himself with a lunch in a wicker basket. The elf had patted his back and smirked, saying that it was "something real special for you and that lucky lady."

It had taken some time to get to the forest. It wasn't that he was trying to show off by casually going to the forest; it was just that it was secluded enough to do things privately with a materialized Archer. Furthermore, the centaurs probably wouldn't attack him on sight, but rather would threaten him and give him an opportunity to leave before turning him into a pincushion. It would not surprise him if Archer, being a Heroic Spirit, would be able to take care of them with ease. He also wouldn't be surprised if they had seen Archer from the last night's battle and didn't want to bother him. He wouldn't be surprised either if they would give a cryptic warning since stargazing was a specialty of theirs.

For the most part, there were pines in the forest, but the gnarled limbs of ancient oaks spread like outstretched arms. Light poked holes through the canopy and spread onto the ground in nature's version of Claude Monet. Harry could smell the moist scent of untouched earth. Archer had manifested and was walking behind him to the right. The fresh scent of the pines mixed with the earth scent to provide an ambrosial smell. It was not often that anyone could enjoy the Forbidden Forest. Grass grew intermittently, as sunlight could not always pierce through the dense woodland. He walked along and found a secluded stream next to a grove. A mature pine had been hit by lightning and toppled over, forming the small sunny area. It was a perfect place.

"Here then?" asked Archer.

Harry nodded and sat down on the collapsed tree trunk. He began to unpack the lunch. There were a pair of sandwiches, roast beef with lettuce, swiss, tomato, bacon and Russian dressing on sourdough rye. Robert had also included a sealed pitcher of chilled tea and fresh strawberries.

Archer immediately took one of the strawberries and ate it. It was the first thing she went for. Harry was happy to eat his sandwich at the moment, but gave Archer a strange look. She met his gaze while in the middle of eating one of the strawberries.

"What? Fruit like this was near impossible to get back in the day."

"It doesn't mesh, like... at all. The fearful warlord is a girl who likes strawberries."

"I can still kick your ass."

"I know that. It's just amusingly absurd. Wait! Save some for me. I like strawberries as much as the next guy."

"I really could make a homoerotic joke about that, but the strawberries are too good. I'll share, if only because you are my Master."

"Aw, that's nice. Are you even going to touch the sandwich?"

"You wouldn't believe how good fresh fruit tastes after being dead for a few years. Besides, some of that English food of yours looks rather disgusting."

"But you were whining about how Saber got to eat it when you couldn't! And here I am, offering you some nice food that is not swimming in grease or anything! You've got to be kidding me!"

"Oh you~ Why so serious?"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose at the odd Servant. Then he shrugged and finished off his tasty sandwich. That gruff elf, Robert, had done a great job. Archer had started on hers, savoring the taste. He had to imagine, as she had said, what it would be like to simply taste and feel after being a dead spirit for nearly half a millennium. She had also left a some of the strawberries. Harry poured himself a cup of chilled tea and put it to his lips. It was slightly sweet. Tea like this just wasn't a very British thing. In fact, as Harry recalled in a moment of trivia recall, tea like this was more of southern United States beverage, especially when sweetened. He could see why they might enjoy it on a hot summer day like he was now enjoying it.

Archer licked her lips of a small bit of the dressing from the sandwich and made an appreciative "hmm." Smiling, Harry poured her a glass of tea which she eagerly took. After draining the glass, she leaned back.

"That was much better than I thought it would be. Now, I hope you can cook since you must already understand that you will need to set up a base of operations actually in London rather than here. I want to enjoy being able to actually eat."

She didn't even begin to consider the possibility of her death. Harry supposed that this was the first step to victory, imagining that defeat was impossible.

"I'll cook stuff for you. I'm no master chef but I'll do my best."

"That's what I want to hear. You said you wanted some swordplay, right?"

"Yeah."

Archer stood up and moved over to sit on the grass, resting her back on a tree trunk. She patted a spot next to her for Harry to sit down. Harry packed the picnic basket and came to sit next to her. He supposed that, being made from magic, grass strains wouldn't be an issue.

"I hate to be philosophical with you about self-defense, but before I let you hold a sword, I want to explain what it means to hold a sword. Maybe it's because I'm an old, dead, sentimental samurai, but I don't care."

"I don't mind. I'm new to this."

"Have you ever held a real weapon? I would exclude your wand, since it seems to be more of a tool. However, if you have, you know the feeling."

"I found my uncle's shotgun and picked it up when I was five years old. It wasn't a good experience. It was heavy and unwieldy. Most of all, I didn't want to kill anyone with it. I'd seen some stuff on the news about people getting shot and guns scared me. I didn't -and still don't- particularly like them, but I wouldn't wish them murdered. I sure as hell wouldn't do that."

"That's not bad, but would you go into a bit more detail about what you felt when you picked up that weapon?"

"Well, my mouth went a bit dry. I can still smell the rank oil and gunpowder residue, since he never cleaned it. I put my little index finger around the trigger but then took it off immediately. My knuckles were white and trembling not just because it was heavy but because I was scared. Though I really couldn't express it adequately at the time, I knew that I could go point it at someone, squeeze the trigger, and blow their brains out."

"Yeah. Having a weapon in your hand for the first time can do that to you. To live by the sword is to die by the sword. As you might know, I disemboweled myself to die as a swordsman than die by fire. But, there is a 'but.' There is something beautiful, a certain ephemereal quality to the arcs of gleaming steel as you fight face to face against an opponent. Unlike a gunfight, you can generally say that the superior person wins, affirming their greater existence. I'll admit, I found the indiscriminate power of guns to be more useful as a general, but I am a samurai. I hope that you can appreciate the sword, Master."

"I think I will, Archer."

Archer materialized the sheathed form of her katana in its dark wooden sheath. She unsheathed the Noble Phantasm and passed it to her Master so that he could hold it. Palms down, he took it with the edge facing outward. He could almost cry at sullying the silver beauty with his handprints. It was a beautiful work, undoubtedly crafted by a master swordsmith. He could feel the cold weight, but it was not a dead weight. Unlike that gun which he had held so long ago, there was a history and sweat and blood to it. It was one-of-a-kind, not something made without heart in a factory.

"Ah, if you want me to teach you, you'll need a blade of your own. I'm going to skip the entire 'practice weapons' stage to bare blades. It will be the fastest and -I believe- most effective method to teach you."

"I see. Archer, could you please find a stick the same general size and shape of your sword. I'm planning on forging one with magic. Before you say anything, I know it would cheapen the sword. However, as you said, I need a sword. Besides, It'll be something that I made with my own two hands. Well, sorta..."

"Don't let that get in the way. Start stretching while I go find something. You really wouldn't want to tear anything. You can do that, right?"

"Yeah. I know enough about stretching to not hurt myself."

"I was talking about straining yourself while I teach you to use the sword."

"Oh. I'll get right to it."

After he returned her sword, Archer left to find a stick that he could transfigure. Harry began to stretch out, mostly his legs. They were surprisingly stiff, but he managed to get them a lot more limber by the time Archer came back with a stick around the size of her sword. Harry took it and felt it. It seemed to work. It was time to work his magic.

He'd worked out a mental ritual to get a perfect transfiguration. It might have been longer than the method they were normally taught, but Harry found that it worked for him quite well. His improving grades had also agreed.

The first step was to analyze the basic structure. In this case, it was several things. Most simply was the shape of the sword. It was also possibly the easiest step at which he could fail. There were so many subtle aspects to the katana which had to be analyzed and comprehended. However, in the case of this, Harry wanted a deeper analysis. There was so much more. There was the basis of a sword. What was it that made a sword to be a sword? Nonetheless, he managed to analyze the basic structure.

The second step was to analyze the existence of the sword. He had read a little Greek philosophy. Most of it had gone over his head. However, one concept had stuck with him. For everything, there must a paradigm. Though he could not truly envision the perfect, ideal sword, he understood the concept on some level. With this instinct, he was able to move onto the next stage.

The third step was to prepare the materials for the change. The name of this step was something of a misnomer since the materials were all in his mind. He had to bring about the steel of the blade, the wood, the sharkskin, all of these elements and hold onto them distinctly in his mind. However, for this sword, he did not have definite image. The sword would shape itself in its genesis. In that respect, it was almost like a child being formed within a fertile womb, ready to simply be.

The fourth step was to go through the process of how the object would normally be built. It did not necessarily even have to be entirely accurate to the process, but the concept of construction gave an underlying framework to the magic that shaped it to its final form. For this, he had to imagine the blacksmith beating and folding the steel to come close to that paradigm perfect sword. The fires were stoked and ready. The water was ready for quenching.

The fifth step was to begin construction. This was the step in which the previous four melded into one. He had to be mindful of every detail of the past steps. Everything must be there for the perfect metamorphosis. This was the most important step, requiring an organized and focused mind.

The sixth and final step was direct this into a flow of magical power that would bring everything to a finale. Of course, errant thoughts would bring about imperfections. However, he had truly seen a perfect example of a sword. Heaven was his paradigm. The power flowed out and reshaped the mere stick. Unlike other transfigurations, he did not have a defined end image as he did not want to copy Heaven. To do so would be to sully the honor of the blade and its wielder. A sword like this had to be one-of-a-kind. The power crackled like lightning through his nerves, but it was a good pain. Pain was only a proper reaction for a mere mortal like him attempting to even come close to that sword. Nonetheless, he knew that he would produce something of value.

As he wished, he produced something of value. The blade did not appear to be of steel, as he would have thought, but of bronze. However, he had no doubt that it was as strong as steel if not stronger. The same wavy pattern of a masterly forged katana existed along the edge, but it lacked a fuller like her sword. The handguard was an inky black made in the shape of an elongated hexagon. The grip was, unexpectedly, black leather. He distinctly recalled sharkskin in his own mental image. The little metal "cap," as he had no better name for it, riveted to the handle was made from the same bronze too.

"I've never seen a sword like that, but it should work. You can worry about a sheath later. Now, I'll show you how to use a sword."

And so she did. She taught him how to move. She taught him to read an opponent from the feel of their blade on his own. She taught him what she knew of the sword. Though he might not have succeeded greatly in this instruction, he was a sincere student. He soaked up her instructions like a sponge. She was proud to have a good student like him, and he was proud to have a teacher as good as her. For hours, they trained like this until the sun began to set in the evening sky.

With a sheath for his sword, he walked back to castle. Sweat drenched his clothes and his muscles ached all around, but he felt good. This was something that would directly help him in Heaven's Feel. Also, he enjoyed seeing Archer happy like this. Not only had she tasted again, but she had taught him. She seemed so happy to pass on her sword skills. Maybe, though she used guns, Archer wanted to see another swordsman in this world. Whatever the case, all he wanted now was a shower and a meal.

xxx

It was another summer day. At this time, Saber was sitting beneath the shade of a tree outside. She was eating lunch outside of the bustle of the Great Hall. As Sue had discovered, Saber could eat large amounts of food. That was not to say that she ate indiscriminately; she liked good food in large quantities. She also had the excuse that it replenished the energy sustaining her. Some of the other girls were jealous about just how much food she could put away while maintaining her petite figure. She wasn't fond of butterbeer or pumpkin juice to the surprise of more than a few, but she did like firewhiskey a great deal, finding the burning sensation and smoky flavor delicious. In terms of age, she was biologically, inasmuch as a magical construct could be biological, seventeen, so she really didn't have too much trouble acquiring it. For this reason, she had a bottle of the stuff along with a glass to drink with her meal.

Someone was walking to her, also carrying a rather large lunch. It was the red samurai, Archer. Archer was a Servant that baffled her. The samurai held a pride equal to Saber's knightly pride, but Archer's was not a knightly pride. Perhaps she would discover the root of this pride when they would next clash. Like her, Archer was not in her armor nor did she have her swords at her waist. Saber raised an eyebrow at the grinning Servant who sat down next to her.

"How do you do, Saber?"

"I'm doing quite well, thanks."

"Lot of food there, huh?"

"Yes. I like large portions."

"I understand. When you're out on the battlefield, you always want a hearty meal in your belly before you go out. I like large portions myself, but I don't think I could eat that much. I guess that means you're my superior in this regard."

"I suppose so, Archer. It seems we both have something in common."

The two began to eat their food. Another figure came into the distance. The cloak and dagger ensemble made the identity immediately obvious. It was Assassin. He too was bringing a lunch to eat under the shade of the tree.

"You should scoot over to give some space to Assassin, Archer."

"Of course, eating-senpai."

"Gratuitous Japanese is annoying, Archer."

Archer smirked, but moved over. Saber shifted over also to allow Assassin to sit down. The two female Servants looked toward him as he took out some of the food.

"What?" asked Assassin.

"To put it bluntly for the more polite Servant of the sword, we were wondering if you would take your mask off to eat."

"Of course I would! Does it look like this thing has a hinged mouthpiece. Plus, why would I want to get a mask like this dirty! It would be a pain to clean!"

"Cain, to put it bluntly," addressed Saber, "You are nothing like your legend."

"No, I am the same man. What was written down is fact. Right now, I want to set right what went wrong with the Grail's Power. It's not that I want to use a wish to instantly make me a good man, but I want to bring back Abel. I want to be a good person like you, Saber."

"I'm not nearly as perfect as you think, Cain."

"If what I see is genuinely good, what harm is there in emulating it."

Saber smiled at his honest flattery. Assassin removed his mask to reveal a weathered face that had been touched by sun and wind from years of wandering. There were a few scars here and there, but nothing very large. He had a short beard and mustache which, given its nice condition, the Biblical killer evidently took great pride in keeping.

"So, Archer," asked Cain, "What's your wish?"

Archer paused and tapped the side of her head with her index finger.

"I think I'd simply want the chance to be here for a while. I don't really have any grand miracle or mistake I want to fix. What's done is done, I'm going to go forward. It just doesn't seem like a responsible choice to me to retroactively avoid the consequences of our own actions."

"I see. I suppose that's one way to look at it."

They continued to eat under the shade in silence for some time.

"Saber," inquired Archer, "What's your wish?"

"To understand my wish, you'd have to know my identity. However, I'll humor you with a general answer. I want to change history."

"There will be all sorts of unintended consequences to that. You do know that, right?" asked Archer.

"I do. Maybe it will become more clear if you discover my identity."

"Can't wait to see that sword of yours unveiled. It's got to be a powerful, instantly-recognizable Noble Phantasm."

"It is. Maybe you'll see it."

Archer smiled and leaned back before continuing to enjoy her food. Soon enough, they would be enemies, but they were friends for now. Each them felt at ease. It was nice. Soon enough, they would be fighting again. Now, they were just eating lunch like a bunch of old friends.

Interlude

"Looks like your ready for a real war, Master," came the rumbling voice.

There were guns everywhere, lot of guns. There were several different rifles lying against the wall. One was a Norinco Type-56-2 rifle, a Chinese clone of the venerable AK-47, with a side-folding stock. It had been modified to mount an open reflex sight and take a vertical foregrip and chosen for familiarity. Another was an Armalite AR-18, semiautomatic rifle similar to Vietnam's infamous Black Rifle, chosen due to its usage among the Irish Republican Army. A third was an L1A1 SLR with plastic furniture, a British version of the Belgian FN FAL battle rifle called the "right arm of the free world," modified to take a telescopic sight. This was chosen for its reliability, 7.62 NATO punch, and because it was a local weapon. Another was a Norinco Type-85 Designated Marksman Rifle, a Chinese clone of the SVD Dragunov, chosen for familiarity and usefulness on the urban battlefield. It too packed a heavy punch like the SLR with its 7.62x54R round.

On a desk were a several pistols. One was a Norinco Type-80 machine pistol which bore more than a little resemblance to the old "Broom-Handle" Mauser. It was a last ditch weapon intended for vehicle crews, but with its relatively small size, detachable stock, and fully automatic capacity, it was a useful tool to its user. Another was a Czech Cz-52 pistol chambered for 7.62 Tokarev. The high velocity pistol round was useful against most body armor at pistol ranges, and its ergonomics made it a much more attractive choice than the Tokarev TT pistol which first used the round. A third was the venerable Colt M1911A1, a pistol which had fought from the First World War onward, with an extended threaded barrel for the mounting of a suppressor. It was chosen for its .45 ACP round because, at least in the jacketed hollow-point which was loaded into the magazines, it was subsonic which allowed it to be better supressed.

There was an RPG-7, the ubiquitous weapon of the guerilla, leaning against a corner with several rounds of rockets. There were hand grenades of various makes and types in a crate. There were Claymores and plastic explosives. There was even ammonium nitrate for a fertilizer bomb.

There were even more esoteric weapons in this arsenal. There were a pair of Ghurka kukris with their famously shaped blades. There were a few ballistic knives, models which were used by the Spetsnaz. There were, of course, more mundane knives such as the Ka-Bar. Right now, a Spyderco folder, immediately recognizable by its round thumb-hole was being sharpened for the upcoming war.

"I'm ready for a war, Rider. No rules, no mercy, no quarter. You would have it no other way, would you?" replied a woman's voice.


	6. The Battlefield

Hey guys. Because of certain material, I would like a response as to whether or not to bump the rating to M.

Editing for this chapter was done by me. I apologize for anything I may have missed.

Please review. I like reader feedback. It helps me make this story better.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

**The Battlefield**

Interlude

They were a young couple enjoying the London nightlife. They weren't actually from London. They were both born in Northern Ireland but had decided to move for safety. After partying, they had decided to cuddle a little bit next to a dark alley. They wouldn't into the alley, that would have been stupid. They had seen enough horror films to know that going into the dark alley was a bad idea. They had been next to a streetlight in a fairly well-lit area.

Then she had came. With a tongue like poisoned honey, their bodies had jerked like marionettes on a string to move at her whim. Everything else was relaxed, but their eyes were filled with fear. Their own bodies weren't even their own. They would have laughed as she pulled out a magic wand, waved it about, and spoke pseudo-Latin words; however, this was all too real. They were lead inside an abandoned factory. The place was due for demolition and weeds grew everywhere. The steel and iron was, on the whole, in various stages of rust. Suddenly, their bodies were theirs again. After waving her wand and throwing around more pseudo-Latin, she was now checking her nails

"What the hell was that? Who the hell are you?"

The next three words sealed the man's fate.

"Kill him, Berserker."

Next to her, the air warped as a figure brought about by magic came to existence. His hair was wild and long like a barbarian's, and he had a long and similarly wild beard. His thinly powerful frame was easily six feet tall. Blue eyes pierced into the soul. Spittle flew with his roar as he crossed the space, approximately thirty feet, near instantly. The tiles shattered from the kicking-off. The cross of lead dangling around his neck glinted and glimmered in the dim light that slipped in through the smashed windows.

The man raised his hands to block. In the split second, it was all he could do. However, this only meant that the first strike didn't kill him. Berserker slammed his fist into the man's forearm. Being on a completely different level from normal humans, the Servant's chambered fist outraced the sound of his punch and ended with a supersonic crack like that of a bullet. The floor cracked as Berserker put his full weight into the blow. The bones in the arm shattered, virtually pulverized to dust. The outrageous forces acting upon him sent the man flying a good fifty feet before he slammed into a brick wall. Bones could be heard audibly cracking. Without medical treatment, the man would probably die anyway.

In the limited cognitive functions of Berserker's mind, he knew that his master had given him an order. The man still drew breath. The order was not yet executed. The tiles cracked once more as Berserker sought to carry out the murderous order. With the same speed, Berseker was right there with another gunshot-like fist. This fist was aimed towards the man's abdominal section. As most students of at least High School biology could state, the abdomen was filled with squishy, liquid filled organs. The effect of Berserker's fist was not unlike that of a bullet hitting a water balloon. The man's midsection promptly exploded, spraying viscera and blood everywhere. Since he had put his full force into as he did with all blows, Berserker's fist kept traveling. With ease, it smashed through the spine and then it smashed through the bricks. Obviously, the man was now dead. Berserker removed his bloodstained hand from the rapidly cooling corpse.

"What do you think of my false priest? And where do you think you're going?"

The woman had started to run. It was only natural in such a situation. However, things that were only natural did not always work out, to say nothing of when the supernatural was involved. She moved to run out a door, but she found it blocked by a shimmering, iridescent barrier. It looked like a soap bubble, but it was at least as strong as steel.

"You can't get out. In fact, no one will hear your screams. Why? Because magic. It exists, but people like you simply aren't worthy of it. You are, shall we say, life unworthy of life."

"No. No. No, no, no, no, nononononononono!"

Her false priest was already at her side. The mad Servant was ready. Anything his Master commanded would be his bidding. To his dulled mind, that was his purpose. He was an extension of her. Her hand reached down to her Servant's crotch.

"Berserker, you deserve to have some fun. Be a dear and rape her to death."

The screams that followed carried on for hours and with the magic warding the place, nothing could stop them except death's release. The Master watched with passionate sadism. The huntress had a new hunting dog.

xxx

The train station was a hub of noise. Here was shouting as parents called out to their children; there was a young child screeching happily as they were reunited with a sibling who had gone to Hogwarts. The past few weeks had been quiet if nervous. Silly as it was in comparison to the bloody war with which he was involved, those last few weeks of cramming for the OWLS had been more than a little stressful. The only method by which he could relax was practicing swordplay out in the forest with Archer. Out of respect for the studying students, there had been no Quidditch games nor practices. For Harry though, the only real way to work out his stress was to do something physical.

Besides, he felt rather assured that he had a decent chance of surviving a first strike from another Servant long enough to use a command seal to call Archer. In other words, he had at best a fifty-fifty shot of interposing his sword between an attack and then thinking "Help me, Archer!" loudly enough for the command seal to activate. Another issue that had been causing him some stress was his friends; they were concerned about how withdrawn from them he was becoming. Harry himself didn't feel very good about lying to them, but it had gotten easier, especially with the thought in mind that he was protecting them from the horrors of the upcoming Grail War.

With regards to that, Archer had made some stipulations. They weren't really orders, but they were. She wanted to stay manifested with a body as much as possible. However, outside of historical reenactment or Japan, a person walking around dressed like a samurai attracted a lot of attention. Therefore, he had to make a shopping trip to get her plainclothes.

The other matter on his mind with regards to the Grail War was residence. As a minor, his options would be undoubtedly restricted. He could stay with his Aunt and Uncle, but the problem in that was distance. Nothing would be accomplished by putting them in the line of fire, and he couldn't stand himself if there was another ruthless Master like Father Hill according to Dumbledore running around. It was just his way, Harry Potter's war, to go forward and stop that. Besides Archer, calm and collected as she could be, had a streak of bloodlust. She would want to go out and fight. As she had told him during their spars, "He who holds the initiative controls the the tempo of battle. He who controls the tempo of battle wins."

The sword. Harry himself found his weapon of choice that was shrunken inside one his pockets to be a bizarre one. Yes, it was probably better against a Servant than a gun. Yes, it was easier to obtain than a gun since he wasn't an American. Yes, it required more discipline and training then other weapons. Yes, it was antiquated. It felt right. Besides, he had an idea on how he would practice magic which he would inevitable need without alerting the Ministry. In actuality, he had an idea and fallback option.

His first order of business was to get out to withdraw some money from the bank. Like any other war, he would need money. However, he would need to get his stuff from his Aunt and Uncle and he really didn't feel like having to break in to get his stuff. So, his plan was to inform them before the aforementioned plainclothes for Archer. Then he'd go back and see them for his stuff. The only issue was that he probably needed a residence at that point. Harry knew that he had a few options in that regard. One of them, or at least what he thought was an option, was a look through the phonebook and a pay phone away.

He passed through the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10 and lost himself in the crowd. Most of the parents of the muggleborn students were here. He did see Uncle Vernon's massive form, but slipped away. He'd be seeing them.

"We could get around much faster if you let me carry your bags, y'know," said Archer.

"Yeah, but a Japanese girl dressed like an old-style samurai moving around at inhuman speeds and carrying a person plus his bags is rather noticeable. I'm trying to avoid the noticeable."

"Kill everything and nobody will know."

"I hate how that makes sense. No, I'm not going to order you to kill everything. It's a good thing I have magic."

"Magic you can't use without calling in the government likes ants to honey."

"I know. That's why I have an invisibility cloak."

"It's too small."

"I thought we already discussed this."

"No we didn't. You said that you'd use the wandless magic that you'd managed to figure out."

"True. I'm going to use magic to hide out, shrink the luggage, and leave invisibly."

"Let's hope they don't have any of those infrared cameras you've mentioned."

"It really depends on the kind of invisibility. I think there is something special about this cloak. Normal invisibility cloaks would have lost their power ages ago. This one has been working for at least decades."

"That doesn't necessarily mean it is invisible to every spectrum of light."

"If that were the case, then it wouldn't be an invisibility cloak. It would be a partial invisibility cloak or an imperfect invisibility cloak."

"Those sorts of things didn't exist when it was made. Who knows if it is invisible in that way. I hate your country with all its CCTV cameras. They are such a pain in the ass."

"Archer, I'm also going to be using one of those spells I like to call a 'Someone Else's Problem' Field."

"That won't help you against cameras."

"It should. It's a modern revision of the spell. They'd have to be a complete idiot to not take cameras into account."

"You wizards are complete idiots. Therein lies the problem."

"Am I a complete idiot, Archer?"

"No. You are only partially an idiot since you, unlike many of your fellows, have me, an ancient and wizened general -but don't call me old, or I'll kill you- to guide you."

"Of course not, Archer-sama," he replied, sarcastically using the honorific.

"It's good you acknowledge the lord."

"But I am the Master."

"Mere semantics. You just acknowledged me as the lord."

"You just like it when I use honorifics. You like it when I call you Archer-sensei when you're beating the crap out of me to teach me how to use a sword."

"True. True. You did learn how to use a sword. When you started, you might as well have been swinging around a bat, but now you could be called a swordsman. You might be pathetic compared to Saber or myself, but you are definitely a swordsman now."

"Shucks, Archer. You're going to make be blush."

By this point, the teen and the voice in his head had gotten to a more private location. Here, he touched his hand to the luggage, muttered the magic words, and shrunk it to a size which he could fit into a pocket. Given Archer's questioning about magic, he really didn't want to think too much about how it worked. That just made his head hurt. It was easier to say "because magic" than it was to give a real explanation as to how it worked, given that it obnoxiously violated almost every branch of physical science imaginable (with the possible exception of quantum physics). He then donned the shimmering cloak, becoming invisible. A few more magic words gave him the "Someone Else's Problem" Field. With these, he passed through the security with ease.

"Told you so, Archer."

"Master," said Archer urgently, "We've got another Servant."

Harry didn't even pay attention as Archer pointed it out. There, casually leaning against a corner in his grey cloak, was Caster. Nobody noticed him since a spellcaster powerful enough to be called Caster could easily cast the same sort of spells to make him unnoticeable. Though the cowl concealed much of his face, the corners of his mouth were slightly upturned in a smile. Now that he could get a better look at the Servant, he noticed that Caster had a thin, scraggly beard. He also noticed that the Servant wore dark trousers and with a matching jacket and Oxfords. From what he could tell, Caster wore no tie nor did he button up the jacket. Aside from his cloak, Caster seemed to be the image of the mafia hit man. Casually, Harry moved to lean in the same corner.

"What brings you here, Caster?"

"This and that. You?"

Caster was already getting on his nerves, and it wasn't in the fun, teasing way that Archer got on his nerves.

"The same. A little business that I need to deal with. Did your Master, Sophie, send you here?"

"Not really. She wanted me to patrol the city for Masters. Coming here was a pretty logical choice. 'Sides, it just felt right to me."

Caster pulled out a packet of cigarettes and procured one. A silver Ronson lighter was flicked open, and a small flame lit the cigarette. A small waving ribbon of tobacco smoke drifted upwards.

"Want one?" offered the cloaked Servant.

"No thanks. I don't smoke."

"Hah. You probably couldn't take it since I smoke unfiltered. You'd get lung cancer and die or something."

"Thanks. If you try anything, Archer is right here to blow your brains out."

"Like all fighters, Archer is a meathead. I've got magic so she can suck it."

Caster was definitely pissing Harry off.

"We've got unfinished business, Caster," came Archer's voice, "I wouldn't be so cocky."

"Yeah. A real pair of idiots here. Makes sense for one idiot to summon another. That was your summoning catalyst, right? It was idiocy, right?"

"Yours was being an ass, right?"

"That means I'm getting to you," fired back Archer before be blew out a stream of smoke.

"You have a way with words, Caster. You really do."

"I'll take praise where I can get it."

"So, back to earlier, what logic led you hear?"

"You, for one, looked school age and you were wearing your uniform. I would expect a few other families to send their younger members. It makes a fair bit of sense. They are, probably, more expendable than the family heads."

"If you aren't going to kill me, why are you here?"

"Information is power. Besides, I already attached a curse that will turn your blood to acid in three hours."

"What!"

"Just fucking with you. You should be a bit more careful; your spell does have limitations."

"Fuck you too, Caster."

With that exchange over, he walked away. He was trembling in anger. If he spent even one more minute beside the cloaked Servant, he'd lose his temper. Caster just rubbed him the wrong way. The cloaked Servant's antagonizing didn't improve his impression of the powerful wizard.

"Archer."

"Yeah."

"I'm going to be the one that kicks his ass."

"Huh. I don't think that's a good idea."

"I have a sword. I doubt a wizard is competent swordsman."

"That's a fatal mistake if I heard one. You are both a wizard and a competent swordsman. What was that quote you mentioned?"

"The one from Napoleon?"

"Oh yeah! I remember. 'Don't interrupt your enemy in the middle of a mistake.' That's a bad assumption right there. You also must remember that Servants deliberately try to conceal their abilities from each other."

"I suppose so. He just pisses me off. I want to wipe that smirk off his face with my fist."

"Yeah. He insulted me too. Don't worry about me not wanting to wipe that smirk from his face. Of course, I'd wipe off the rest of his face too."

Harry chuckled. Her cheerily dark sense of humor was pretty funny. Soon, they left the train station. He knew the route from here to Diagon Alley. That would be his first stop. Due to the, as Harry would put it, bullshit of Ministry laws, he could indeed practice magic there without worrying about activating the Trace. Of course, it meant that in practice, muggleborn students or those who lived with muggles, could not practice magic outside school unlike those raised among wizards.

As was to be expected, things were crowded. Once outside, he took off the cloak and dismissed the charm. It was a hot summer day. Thankfully, he had changed over to a plain grey t-shirt and jeans. The jeans might get a bit hot, but Harry just didn't like shorts all that much.

A quick wandless spell disguised his appearance as he made his way to the Leaky Taver. Of course, Archer was watching around. Though they weren't supposed to fight in public, rules were often broken for the sake of convenience. Murdering a Master early on to gain a wish was very convenient. Annoyingly, he didn't only have to worry about Servants. He would have to worry about Masters too if Dumbledore's comments about Hill were correct. It made sense; if he could, he would fight against an enemy Master. He also couldn't rule out a pragmatic Master who would use guns. That would be especially egregious for him since his own Servant used guns.

It was no big deal to get to the Leaky Cauldron. Of course, he looked very out of place in his clothes. However, a wave of a wand silenced all doubts. A few taps later, he was in Diagon Alley. It was a rather simple matter to get to Gringots. A few of the guards raised an eyebrow at his choice of clothing. Harry laughed because he would be purchasing more of that kind of clothing for Archer. After walking up the steps, he entered the building itself. As he would expect, there were lines. Since he was not above such earthly things, he had to wait in one. Thankfully, there was a voice in his head that was not a sign of schizophrenia with whom he could converse.

"So, Archer?"

"Yes?"

"What sort of clothes did you want to buy?"

"I'm not terribly interested in lingerie. It's not like I don't have undergarments of my own."

"Did you really have to talk about that first?"

"Yes. It makes you adorably flustered. It's kind of sad when the medieval spirit is less prudish than her master."

"I'm not a prude. I'm just not the type to really think about that. You've been in my head, sort of. You should know that I'm not thinking about sex every five seconds."

"It would be funny for me if you were."

"I feel so much pity for your poor, horrible lack of amusement," responded Harry dryly.

"Well, the other things I'd like are a pair of sandals, shorts, maybe a miniskirt-"

"-Can you get more stereotypically Japanese?"

"Pardon me?"

"That Japanese girls wear miniskirts is something of a joke. It's funny because you want to wear one even when you're from medieval Japan."

"Very funny. Carrying on, I'd like a shirt of some king -probably a t-shirt-, and maybe a nice red dress."

"Red dress specifically?"

"I just happen to like the color."

"Try not to die on the away team."

"Huh?"

"The redshirt always dies, always."

"I don't know pop-culture, Harry."

"I'm going to lord that over you so much."

"You do know that just means I'll kick your ass harder when we spar."

"Meh. It'll be totally worth it."

"Next!" called a goblin teller.

Harry moved up in the line to the wizened and wrinkly banker.

"Name?"

"Harry Potter. I'd like to withdraw an amount equivalent to 200 pounds and 25 galleons. A little change would be nice too."

"You are a minor."

"My relatives with whom I live are muggle."

"Though the Ministry doesn't like it, we at Gringots really don't care to whom we lend our money. We just expect payback with interest or things can get uncomfortable."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't act like I care about you. Move over to that line in the corner. You will be called out as Number 17."

"Thank you, sir."

"Move."

"Yes sir."

And so he moved to avoid the goblin's ire. The line to the teller had sixteen ahead of him. Though it might seem to be an inefficient system at a glance, the goblins managed to masterfully route streams of customers between tellers. If one were looking for a special item or requested specifically, they would be streamed over to a separate line for a ride to the vaults. However, doing so was a process that was somewhat more time consuming than going to the teller and getting the requested amount immediately from the bank's reserves. At a later date, the money withdrawn would be taken from the vault itself. This new system with the tellers hadn't quite existed when he had first gone to the bank. However, the influx of more and more people new to Gringotts and a study of muggle banking methods had gradually yielded this system.

"So... Archer?"

"I'm all ears."

"You have no ears at the moment."

"Mere semantics."

"It's been three hours. I'm not dead yet."

"Wonderful. Caster can go die in a fire. I'm going to take great joy in shoving my sword up his-"

"You know he would turn that around on you. It would be something like 'Didn't know you were fully functional in that way.'"

"He would. Then I would show him which sword I meant and he would be very much without doubt as to the sword I meant."

"As a guy, that would be incredibly cruel."

"He deserves it. Besides, you and me both know that he knows more than he lets on."

"Obviously. Now there is one Servant I might be able to beat hand-to-hand."

"It's a bad idea. Besides, I get the feeling that he is not defenseless in a melee. Just doesn't seem the type to overspecialize."

"True, but shouldn't he be one of the physically weakest Servants. Wizards, myself included, tend to be squishy."

"As a Servant, he would be less squishy than you. Even at the weakest, a Servant is on another level compared to a person like you."

"Yeah, but weren't all of you Heroic Spirits human at one point?"

"I don't think you get it. All the feats that I manage, I was able to perform at that level while alive. I suppose that if you dedicate your life to it, have a lot of natural talent, and are just lucky, you might maybe have a chance of becoming a Heroic Spirit. Maybe its a dilution in power available due to the amount of people in the world compared to my day. However, the chances of you being able to fight at my level are at least a million-to-one."

"Damn. Do you really have to put me down like that."

"Yes. Don't get overconfident and cocky. While I'd love for you to be able to fight at my level -it would save me a lot of stress- I don't think it's possible."

"Number 17!" called the teller.

"Here!"

He was handed a sheaf of bills alongside a little bit of change and a small sack of coins. After thanking quickly, he left the building. It wasn't particularly difficult to find a device which could bring about a "SEP" field. They were a dime a dozen. However, the specific qualities he wanted were somewhat difficult to find. He wanted one which could key in specific people to its location, adjust its size, and was portable. In the end, he settled for a stone cylinder engraved with several runes which weighed about two pounds. It cost him six galleons. A bargain model would have cost maybe one.

After this, it was a trip down to Knockturn Alley. The plan was to buy a wand. Of course, there was a reason why he would choose a shadier method with much less quality control than Ollivander. Ollivander had his business subsidized by the Ministry. This gave him much greater access to the rare ingredients necessary for a proper wand. However, it meant that one of his wands, which was necessary for entry at Hogwarts was given a Trace spell. This was the bog-standard Trace. That was not to say that an area could be Traced. However, this was the most common method.

The alley was, as always, rather dark and dingy. In his street clothes, he stuck out like a sore thumb. However, there were a few others dressed like him. It was a sign of the changing times. With more mundane influences, the culture of magical Britain was changing for better or for worse. Harry had previously worked through the equivalent of a phonebook to find a wand dealership. There he had found one: Igor's. It was only through the "phonebook" that he learned that other wand dealerships existed. Harry had felt particularly stupid upon discovering that particular fact. The fact that only about one tenth of magical children went to Hogwarts had also come as a shock. Hogwarts mostly took muggleborn students and purebloods whose families had traditions of attendance. Most went to other, smaller schools.

Igor's was a very unassuming building. It was a small, two story building made from bare, unpainted wood. Fading and flaking white letters spelled out the shop's name. Almost like a store out of the the American Old West, "Wands and Other Items." Blinds were drawn on the single window. Harry walked up the steps onto the porch. The only indication that the shop was open was a small sign hanging from the doorknob which said "Open." By this point, he had a sinking feeling about the whole venture. Nonetheless, he rapped at the frame of the solid door.

"Come in," came a rasping voice from behind the door. Whoever it was, the voice sounded like a longtime smoker.

Harry did so, and opened the door, causing a bell to ring. The first thing he noticed was the cloying scent of tobacco smoke. There was a full ashtray of stubbed cigarette butts. Idly, he noted that these were Marlboros. The lighting was poor as the room was only lit by a quartet of dim oil lamps. In a display case were several different wands. These seemed, for the most part, to be similar to the cylindrical wands traditionally used by stage magicians. They lacked, as a whole, the handgrip of an Ollivander wand. The walls were bare and plain. The rail-thin man behind the counter was positively ancient with all his wrinkles. He looked almost like a living fossil. Long white hair was tied back. Oddly, he was dressed in a white dress shirt with a red bowtie and a brown tweed vest that was left unbuttoned.

"Hey kid, you just going to gawk like that? Hate to be rude, but I'd like to get a little business going. I don't get all that many customers and I have a low tolerance for dilly-dallying," said the man with a slight Eastern European accent. Harry would have guessed Romanian.

"Sorry. I'm looking for a wand."

"I'm going to assume less than legal, right?"

"Err, yes. I'm looking for something to get around the Trace. I'm expecting a bit of fighting, so I want to be able to cast without worrying about the Ministry, pardon my French, going after my ass."

The old man chuckled.

"There was another just like you. It was fifty or so years ago. I'm willing to bet you found me because I was the first wandmaker you found in the directory who was located in Knockturn Alley."

"Umm, yes sir."

"Really, I don't mind. I'm assuming you already have an Ollivander wand."

"Yes sir."

"I'll warn you, because I lack the funds available, you won't get as much raw power from one of my wands."

"I don't mind. I just need it to work well enough for a fight."

"Allow me to explain. After a little fiddling around, I have managed to create something perfect for a duelist who needs power on the cheap."

"Really?"

"Yup. It required a crystal shard in the core. What it does is that it synchronizes to a magical core in your own body?"

"What's a magical core? I've never heard of it. To be perfectly honest, it sounds like some sort of arbitrary power level sort of thing."

"I suppose it could be called something like that. However, it is not. It's much more of a concept than any physical thing. Your magical core is almost like your soul but it is more. It is the sum of your being. It is who you are. I suppose a better descriptor would be that it is the origin of the self. However, to understand the magical core requires an understanding of philosophy and metaphysics which I think that you, my young friend, lack."

"Thanks. Would I be correct in assuming that you are Igor."

"Indeed you would. Allow me to get the model wand which you want."

The man disappeared into the recesses of the shop. Unlike Ollivander, there was no question of whether the wand would suit the wizard. This was a much less artistic approach. However, it had its merit. To diverge the mysticism from the wandmaking allowed things like the crystal which Igor had mentioned. Harry did have one burning question now: What was the essence of his magical core? The old man returned soon enough. The wand was ten inches long and painted black with the exception of a band of white at the end from which spells would be cast. Harry could feel it practically humming in his grasp.

"How much do you want for this?"

"Fifteen galleons."

Harry handed over the requisite amount of money and tipped him for confidentiality with an additional coin. The old man smiled without humor as the teen left the shop. He sat back on his stool.

"I suppose it's happening again," muttered Igor, "How nostalgic! Again my wand will be carried into the greatest conflict !"

xxx

With his new wand stuffed in his pocket, Harry walked out towards a shopping mall. As part of his promise to Archer, he would get her clothes. Much to his chagrin, Archer made it a point to talk about lingerie on the way there. He knew she was just trying to embarrass him, something at which she was succeeding. He figured that he might as well, in spite of her opposition, to by her lingerie, especially the lacy kind. He thought that it might annoy her back. It would be absolutely terrible for him if this scheme were to backfire.

Thus, he found himself in a women's clothing store. He had rather awkwardly explained that he was buying a surprise present for his girlfriend. That was a lie, a damn lie; Archer was definitely not his girlfriend.

As of now, he was holding up a brick red hoodie. Archer had told him that she liked it. Right now, she was making it so that he could see her though she was still invisible. It made trying to find her size much easier. It was surprising, though, just how small Archer was. It only now occurred that she was an inch or two shorter than him. Her presence was just that much larger than life. This small one seemed to fit her.

"Archer get!"

"Pardon me," responded Harry.

"Over there."

What was, in fact, over there was a rack of scandalously short jean shorts. It was as if Archer was deliberately trying to mess with him which he knew she was. Raising an eyebrow, Harry walked over to the rack to find one that fit his annoying Servant. Again, it was a smaller one which fit her. There was at least one upside to Archer not requiring larger sizes in that his wallet liked it. In spite of himself, he actually did end up enjoying this shopping trip. On his way to the checkout, he also picked up a pair of flip flops. All told, it cost him around seventy pounds. Of course, given the .99 bullshit he had enough change to use a pay phone. After this, he walked towards a different part of the mall.

"Oh hell no."

"Hell yes."

"Screw you, Master."

"Since you've been going on about it, I figured I might as well humor you."

"Y'know, I really had this coming."

Harry entered the lingerie store with a shit-eating grin and explained, given a moderately questioning look, that he was here for his "girlfriend." After a few minutes, Archer was the proud owner of a pair of black, lacy panties. Harry's shit-eating grin continued.

"I love you too, Archer."

"Would you like to try on your new clothes, all of them."

"Go fuck yourself, Harry."

Harry made his way over to a girls bathroom and passed the cloak to Archer. Surreptitiously, he waited outside the entrance. After a few minutes passed, a materialized Archer emerged. She was smart enough to realize that the topknot would attract too much attention and had thus let her hair down. Harry couldn't help but like the way she looked.

"You look nice."

Archer gave him a rather irate look. Then she shrugged.

"Yeah, I do."

"Let's get to the next part of the plan."

"The pay phone part?"

"Yeah."

It took a few more minutes of walking to go to the food court. Harry was hungry. He figured that he would allow Archer to pick where they ate. She was being a fairly good sport about it. Archer was in the mood for fish and chips. Harry was not at all disagreeable. They sat down at one of the tables. Archer was wolfing down the fried fish. Harry was a good deal slower.

"What do you think, Archer?"

"I like it. Haven't had anything quite like it. Nice and filling."

"Yeah. Heavy fried food has that effect."

"Are you worried about getting fat?"

"I'm on a sports team. I've got to be in shape, so I watch what I eat."

"Don't worry; I'll train it out of you."

"Thanks, Archer," drawled Harry sarcastically.

"Don't give me that. You like the fruits of hard work more than most. I'm that way too."

"Yep. Gotta keep moving forward. That's the only way to succeed."

"Right! Now let me finish this. I actually like it."

Harry smiled. Archer was Archer. She was something unique. There was no other like her. She was a legend. He was just a kid that had accidentally called upon her and had the honor of fighting with her. Still, Archer put her trust in him. It was a feeling that he had never felt before. Perhaps this was what it meant to serve with the Demon Lord.

"That was good. Thanks, Ma-Harry."

That was right. This wasn't even related to the Grail War. It was between them as two people rather than Master and Servant. Harry smiled, stood up, and threw away the trash. From there, the next part of the plan was to find a pay phone. He had a phone call to make. Thankfully, there had been a phonebook at Hogwarts for the purpose of Muggle Studies. He had copied down the number.

Harry walked down the street into a red phone box. Quickly, he inserted the correct change for a call. Then he looked down at the phone number he had written on his wrist. It had just happened to be the most convenient location at the time. He dialed the number. There were a few alternate numbers just in case he had gotten the wrong number. This first number was the wrong number. The second was also a wrong number. The third, however, was the correct number.

"MacTavish here. Hill, I fucking swear-"

"It's not Hill; it's Potter, Harry Potter."

"Oh, sorry. Hey kid, how're you doing?"

"Doing pretty well. I'm having a bit of a problem, though."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah."

"Grail War related?"

"Uh-huh."

"What is it?"

"I need a place to stay. Could you help with that?"

"You're probably better off dealing with Hill than with me."

"I'd rather not deal with him. There's just something I don't quite like about him."

"It's because he's Catholic, right?"

"Funny but no."

"Lemme see what I can do. Call me back at 9 o' clock. I think I can find something for you."

"Not just me."

"Girlfriend?"

"Why does everyo- It's my Servant. My Servant wants to be materialized, and I don't mind that."

"Alright. Alright. Try not to die in the meanwhile."

"Can do. Thanks."

xxx

Night had fallen over London. However, London was not Harry's current location. As of now, he was walking with Archer along a sidewalk swept by the pools of light driving back the darkness formed by the streetlights. It was a little past nine. He had called back MacTavish who had found something. Harry had said that he would call back soon since he had some business to take care of.

The street was normal. The near-identical houses were normal. It was as if the street took a great pride in its external normalcy. With Harry and others, the street was considerable less than normal. Archer smiled like a cat on the hunt. Harry was worried about how much Archer was looking forward to meeting his family. When she smiled like that, he knew it could not end well. There was simply no way. There it was, Number 4 Privet Drive. The moment of truth was at hand. Harry walked up to the door and knocked.

"Hello! It's Harry!"

His heart began to speed up. It was really a silly reaction, especially compared to some of the things that he had faced. However, people were not logical beings. They were beings of emotion. The door opened and his heart almost felt like it would explode.

"Boy, what are you doing? Who's that?"

"I need to get some of my things to move out. That would be Archer."

"Are you stupid, boy? You're supposed to be staying here with us, not hanging around with your freakish friends. And what the hell kind of name is 'Archer?'"

"I really can't explain."

"You'd damn well better!"

"No," stated Archer abruptly.

"How about we come inside?" asked Harry, trying to ease the tensions.

"Fine."

They went into the house and sat in the living room. Uncle Vernon returned with his wife and son in tow. There was a tense, uncomfortable silence between the five. Dudley started to fidget slightly.

"Who's that?" asked his cousin, pointing toward the Japanese girl.

"That's Archer. It's not her name. I'll explain quickly. I'm involved in something called Heaven's Feel. In this, seven Heroic Spirits are summoned as Servants into seven classes. One of these is Archer. It's a fight to death. I was involved accidentally. I need to be out of here because, firstly, it's in London and, secondly, I'd put you in a lot of danger if I were to stay with you. It's supposed to be a secret, so please don't tell anyone "

His uncle inhaled and exhaled loudly.

"One thing," said Archer, "Don't talk to my Master like that. Only I get to do that."

"Really?" asked the large man.

An unholy firearm materialized into her hand as she lazily pointed it at the man.

"Yes."

"Fine. Do it," he acquiesced.

Archer smiled humorlessly. It didn't take too long for Harry to gather the things he needed. There weren't all that many things, but it took a little while for everything to be packed. With frosty goodbyes, he parted from them.

As they were walking along the sidewalk, Archer paused momentarily.

"Master."

She was dead serious.

"What is it, Archer?"

"There's a battle going on."

"Let's go then."


	7. Seven Servants

Not my best work, but I wanted it done before I leave for a week. I think you can figure out Berserker's theme song by the end (it's metal). I'd still like to know whether you guys think I should bump the rating to M. Please read and review. Thanks.

It might seem as though ate my scene breaks. It didn't. I wanted this whole chapter to flow as one continuous scene.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**Seven Servants**

It is a battle of force against force. Metal sparks as the two clash. Lance against sword. However, the lance was not the battering force that clashed against the hurricane of the sword. A bronze shield as large as a man's chest battered without fail against the raging storm. Once more the whirlwind of the blade crashed down upon the shield. The ground cracked as the warrior stood his ground unflinching. Bronze clashed against steel. Not only were the implements of destruction bronze or steel, but the garb of the users too was either bronze or steel. The swordsman, a petite girl, was clad in blue cloth and silvery steel. The spearman, a large man with a dark beard, was clad from head to toe in shining bronze with a red cloak that flew wildly in the winds kicked up by the clashing warriors. The spear was thrust overhand to strike at the blue knight's heart. The raging storm swept away the shaft and quickly reversed direction to hew at the man. The great shield moved in an arc to bat aside the sword. Once more the lance was thrust, seeking to pierce through the steel-clad knight.

"Heh," laughed the bronze knight, "Not bad for a girl."

The girl raised an eyebrow.

"Saber, you really are something else," continued the bronze spearman.

"Again, Lancer?" asked Saber.

The mountain of bronze nodded, shaking off some of his perspiration. As he charged back into the fray, he let out a barking roar like that of a noble hunting hound. With two hands, Saber raised her sword on high to slam down onto the bronze warrior. Prana burst behind the blow like a raging wave. The shield again took her blow. Aside from a few dents and scratches, it was none the worse for wear. However, neither his shield nor his spear seemed to have the air of history of a Noble Phantasm. In this case, it was simply the shear strength and iron discipline of Lancer going against her blow.

His sandal-clad feet were pushed back by the force. The concrete was turning into gravel beneath his feet. However, it was not Lancer's way to retreat. His feet dug into the ground. This was his line in the sand. From here, he would only advance. His legs were like steel springs ready to be set loose. With a great roar the power was released as the thrust the spear with a force like that of a cannon. With that speed and power, Saber could only dodge. She jumped back a good ten yards. Lancer advanced, walking at first. As Saber broke in a run to go against the bronze spearman, he accelerated into a sprint. Hundreds of pounds of steel and bronze smashed against each other as each warrior put their full weight into their blows. With the line in the sand drawn behind him, Lancer would not be forced back. With her pride as a knight, Saber would not be forced back. Again and again they smashed into each other, tearing up the ground around them. Shards of pavement flew like shrapnel from an artillery strike. The spear drew back. The sword drew back. Again they clashed with titanic force. In spite of the brute force unleashed, there were no wasted movements in their blows. For something so base and brutal, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Steel and bronze clashed in the night.

From a far away rooftop, Caster sat alongside the lithe form of his Master. With his magic, they were watching from afar. Unlike his less than friendly dealings with Harry and Archer, he was relaxed and smiling now.

"Caster," began Elise, "They really are amazing."

"They sure are, Master. What do you want to do?"

"I'm content to stay and watch. Perhaps if there is an opportune moment, you can go in there and finish them. I only really want to make a move if Potter is out tonight. He's going to die first."

"Well, that is why you summoned me," returned Caster laughing, "I do think there is a good opportunity out there. Saber's Master is exposing herself. Give me an order and I'll take her out."

"You did mention that another was prowling around here."

Caster closed his eyes and began to scry the area. After a second of concentration, his eyes snapped open under the shadows of his cloak.

"Yes. With the horse, it's probably Rider. There is no one in the vicinity that is obviously Rider's Master. The Servant has been enchanted to look like a mounted bobby. Not just any policeman, but one with the sort of mustache you only see in pornos."

Elise flushed red at his words. She gave her Servant a gentle slap across his cheek.

"Did you really need to go there?"

Caster laughed.

"What about Potter and Archer?"

"I gave up on tracking them a while ago. The spells that I would use for long-distance tracking require too much concentration. I would rather have my attention focused on matters like this brawl."

"I suppose that makes sense."

"Don't worry. I'll know when they come back. They will. I know he will."

Elise sighed and pouted. Caster leaned back and extended his arm to give her a hug. His Master smiled and returned the affectionate gesture. They spent some time cuddling like this. Suddenly, he broke away.

"What is it, Caster?"

"Potter is back. Looks like they want a slice of the action."

Rider's Master began the climb onto a warehouse overlooking the battlefield. For this, she was clothed from head to toe in dark grey gear. A balaclava concealed her face and night vision goggles made her look like some kind of alien. The lines of her weapon this night, the AR-18 outfitted with a night scope and brass catcher, were also the same sort of thing that would be found in science fiction, especially when compared to the more traditional SLR. A long suppressor was screwed onto the gun's muzzle. Furthermore, a bipod, now folded, was clamped onto the barrel rifle. The reasons for this location were twofold. Firstly, the building was not so high that it would silhouette her against the sky. Secondly, the smooth metal allowed for a fast escape.

Once she had gotten onto the roof, she deployed the legs of the bipod. From here, she was four-hundred meters away from the action. From here, the muzzle flash could not be seen by human eyes. Every possible light-reflecting surface had been painted over with a matte black. She took a look at the action and found a target, a lone girl standing out.

"Idiot," she muttered as she flicked the safety off.

The goggles were pulled up to allow usage of the scope. Her target glowed under the best efforts of modern technology. The reticule was aligned with the head of the girl. At this range, it would take less than half of a second for the bullet to trike. A ribbon tied to the rifle gave a good gauge of the wind. There was a little that would cause the shot to sway slightly to the left. Her finger moved from tapping the trigger guard to being curled around the trigger itself. She was ready for her shot.

A few miles away, Archer and Harry were moving in as quickly as possible. At this distance, her hawk-like eyes pierced through the night. Far away, near the battle, a glint of light caught her attention. Now, she was in her full battle regalia. Her eyes narrowed.

"Master, we've got a sniper over the battle."

"Do you think the sniper is a Master?"

"Who knows? However, taking out a sniper would our lives so much easier."

"Do it,"

Archer reached behind her back for a matchlock. Given that she was holding Harry in her other arm, she only had one arm free. As usual, she only used one hand for the gun. In an instant, wind and bullet drop and even the earth's curvature were taken into account by the gunslinger Servant. Grinning ferociously, she fired. Then she frowned as an arrow struck her bullet mere feet from impacting on the sniper.

Rider dispensed with his disguise and slid another arrow onto his bow. Though he had foiled his own chance of a surprise attack, he had saved his Master. It was a fair trade. How obnoxious it was that he, who used a bow, was not Archer. He spied the moving form of his opponent, a Servant who used guns, in the air. He pulled back on his small compound bow and let loose the arrow with the speed of a bullet. It easily smashed through the sound barrier. By the time the first arrow was halfway to his target, ten more arrows were in flight.

He rode his horse out to find a better position. With a grand leap, the compactly powerful steed jumped onto the roof. He extended a gauntlet clad hand to his master. She took it, and he swung her onto the horse. Then with another leap, they were on the move. This was to be a running fight.

Archer calmly analyzed her situation. While in the air as she was, she could not easily change her position. There were eleven arrows aimed at her. She couldn't blow them all out of the sky with only one gun. The solution was simple and clear in her mind. She tossed Harry upwards and drew her second gun. Eleven shots and eleven shattered arrows in less than a second. She caught her Master.

She took a look at the Servant who had fired the arrows. As of now, he was swinging the sniper onto his mount. The Servant wore dark green Chinese-style lamellar armor. As an archer, his arms were unarmored. An iron helmet with an Indian-style mail skirt protected his head. He rode with a very familiar style of tunic and trousers. It was the garb of the infamous enemy of the Japanese, an enemy that had been swept away by the divine wind.

"Mongol," growled Archer.

Harry was set down on a rooftop.

"I've got some ass to kick, Master."

Harry smiled and gave her a thumbs-up and concealed himself with his invisibility cloak. Archer smiled back and jumped off into the sky. Harry hoped that she would draw the fight to a more remote area.

Archer cocked both her arquebuses and snapped a pair of shots at the moving Servant. By simply process of elimination, this was Rider. The steed was also a dead giveaway. A pair of simultaneously fired arrows destroyed the incoming lead. Rider slid into cover as Archer moved around to take another shot. In a moment, Rider returned without his passenger. Three arrows were readied, hard iron tips pointed at her. Assuming he could pull the bow back as fast as she could fire her two guns, he would have three projectiles out for her two. Neither Servant was willing to go all out in order to conceal the full extent of their abilities.

Three arrows were released, easily outracing their sound. Three bullets were fired, two from the right gun and one from the left. Once more, the projectiles collided into shattering wood and metal. They looked toward each other with grins that said to each other: "Go faster."

Fire and smoke leaped from the guns as Archer fired a volley. Rider weaved around them and behind a brick wall that was thoroughly perforated by the gunshots. Archer had to hand it to him; he was a magnificent horseman, doing all that using only his knees and not so much as touching the reins. The horseman rode vertically along the wall before cresting over. Five volleys of three arrows were loosed. Archer quickly backpedaled dodged the volley of arrows. However, Rider was now suffering from the same issue in that he could not easily change direction in air. Two shots. One for him and one for his horse. Two arrows. One for each bullet. Collision and destruction.

Rider's arrows were like a an automatic shotgun. With their rate of fire, they were not just any machine gun but the modern incarnation of the gatling gun. Archer smashed them out of the air with burning lead. The streams of fire crossed the city to vie for supremacy. Every last attack had the force to rip off limbs with ease.

From the rooftop, Caster commented, "Isn't it something. I don't think I've ever seen something like that."

"But you can do so much better than them, right?"

"Of course. Imagine a fireworks display vomiting. When I really get going, that can happen."

"You are the best Servant, Caster."

"Aww, thanks. I try to be humble."

"No you don't. But that is part of why you are so much fun. Plus, you have the power to back it up."

"What do you know? Berserker is on the move. Assassin is probably out there. 'Course, with his class skill, I can't track him. I'd bet good money that he is watching and waiting."

Again, Saber and Lancer clashed. By now, both were battered and dripping with sweat. Nonetheless, the two Servants could continue fighting at full force. Steel and bronze again hammered into each other with titanic force. Sword against shield and spear. In spite of himself, Saber was hammering back. Now, he was only a few feet from his line in the sand. It was a line he would not cross. Lancer planted himself and shoved forward with his shield, sending Saber flying. Sparks skittered between her armor and the field of gravel, concrete having been demolished by their clash. Lancer barreled forward, using his shield like a battering ram. Saber stood her ground.

Steel clashed with bronze. Lance sought to pierce flesh. Sword sought to cleave flesh. They were both seeking destruction. In spite of their goals, no malice passed between the two warriors. It was a good fight and they were enjoying themselves. Like the best warriors, they kept going at it with iron wills. They would pick themselves up and try again. Try they did. Their strikes held tremendous force, enough to probably shatter a building. Steel fought bronze.

Far off, Archer ducked under a shotgun-like spread of arrows. Now, it was not a contest of rate of fire. In that, Rider was her superior. However, now it was a contest of accuracy. The physical limitations of a bow gave her an edge. Smoothbore matchlocks, her guns might be, but she knew they were more accurate than any bow. She snapped a pair of shots. It was, in submarine terms, a "down the throat" shot. Just was when a submarine would fire a pair of torpedoes to the right and left of a ship in the hopes that they would turn and hit a torpedo. Unflinching, Rider let the shots whip past him. Archer had a plan by now.

The twin guns were raised. One shot, two shots, three shots, four shots, five shots, six shots. They fanned out in a loose hexagon around Rider. Four more shots were fired. These were not with the intention of actually hitting Rider; rather, they were intended to box him him. It was a task they performed admirably. Unlike arrows, bullets have a nasty habit of ricocheting from hard surfaces. Usually, with soft lead, this would be unlikely for the shot fired by an arquebus. However, the arquebus was also used with another sort of ammunition: stone. To an extent, Archer could control the qualities of the ammunition fired from the guns. In this case, she used a harder material for the first six shots. Each of the six shots was aimed at various surfaces behind Rider. They hit and ricocheted. Some needed to hit another surface to ricochet against their intended target. Unaware of the qualities of his opponent's weapon, all six slammed into the mounted Servant's back. Rider dematerialized. For now, he was down for the count.

"Shit!" cursed Harry as a bullet punched through the shield he had transfigured from the roof. It was dark, and he couldn't see. There was no muzzle flash he could see nor any retort he could follow. There was only the supersonic crack of the rifle rounds. He ducked down and began to crawl. Without his power, the shield returned to its original form. It was probably the same sniper that Archer had attacked and Rider had saved. He felt a scorching heat over his neck as a bullet whipped past. He lay flat. Then, he had a plan. He whipped out the invisibility and swung it around.

Suddenly, her target disappeared from the thermal scope. Rider's Master scowled in annoyance. She had to move to switch positions. Even with the suppressor, the gunfire was bound to wake someone up. Nonetheless, it would probably be blamed on the IRA if she were seen. That worked perfectly for her. She put two more rounds into the general area, slipped the night-vision goggles back onto her face, and began to move.

Harry dropped back down the second the rounds flew. Then he got up and cautiously put on the cloak. The sword was at his side and new wand in his hand. He began to load the revolver in his mind. First spell was a barrier to protect from bullets. This one was omnidirectional and could move with him. However, he doubted it would stand much gunfire. Next was a fire spell. This worked from the idea that the sniper was using thermal vision equipment. Hopefully it would blind the sniper or burn the sniper. Next was a disarming spell. For obvious reasons, this was a good thing. It wouldn't surprise him if there was a backup gun. Following this were a pair of blasting spells. The sniper was aiming to kill him, and he knew he needed to return the courtesy. Finally was another shield spell just in case. The cartridges were loaded. His revolver was ready.

There, a flicker of heat. Her opponent, Master of that gun-using Servant, had an invisibility cloak. There were ways to deal with that without magic. The easiest solution would be lots of grenades, but she only had a few.

"Archer, I need your help," thought Harry loudly but not so much that the command seal would activate.

Soon enough, Archer was beside him in full battle regalia. There were no more gunshots. The sniper evidently knew better than to try and take on a Servant. Suddenly, Rider, the rear of his cuirass shattered and dripping blood, appeared and whisked away the sniper. Archer fired a pair of shots at the retreating team, but Rider, wounded as he was, still dodged. Soon enough, they were gone from even Archer's hawklike eyes.

"We should leave. I think people noticed the gunshots."

There was a loud noise, explosive like another gunshot. Archer and Harry turned around to the source of the noise. Archer's guns were at the ready. Harry's wand was pointed in one hand with his other at the hilt of his sword. It was a smirking Caster.

"Gentlemen, calm down. I'm not out to annihilate you right now. Just thought I'd pass along something that might be of interest to you. Berserker and his Master have arrived. They went to Lancer and Saber's fight. I think that you might find Berserker's Master to be particularly relevant."

"What's that supposed to mean, Caster?" growled Harry.

Caster smiled affably and replied, "Nothing at all. But please humor me and go. You'll find it to be quite fulfilling."

Harry wanted to plant his fist into that arrogant face but restrained himself.

"Thanks for the intel, Caster," stated Archer. She pulled the trigger. "Goodbye."

The bullet entered into the shadows of his hooded face. The lead entered his head just above his left eye socket. It destroyed as it went past, deforming to blow out almost the entire back of his head into a pink mist as it exited. Caster dropped and fell in a pool of blood. He then dissolved, almost like sand blowing away in the wind. The mocking laughter returned.

"Why so serious, Archer? Or should I say Nobunaga-chan? That's no way to greet a friend."

"You really aren't my friend."

"I never would have guessed," answered Caster's voice emanating from everywhere and nowhere.

Archer frowned but grabbed her Master and began to move towards the first battle of the night. The clash of the titans, the clash of bronze and steel, continued. Harry couldn't help but feel that Caster, as much as he disliked the man, was right.

"Archer, can you see what's going on?"

"Looks like Berserker is a priest," she answered.

"Is there more?"

"You've got to be shitting me! It's that same woman who tried to kill you when I was summoned!"

"How does Caster know all this?" asked Harry.

"Who knows? I'd love to beat it out of him."

"I thought you wanted to shove a sword up his ass."

Archer laughed, "That too!"

Harry laughed back. His face then sobered as they approached. It was time to get serious. His revolver was being reloaded for maximum destruction. This time, he was thinking with transfiguration.

"Archer," he said, deadly serious, "Feel free to simply blow her brains out."

"Can do. I'm not going to let someone like that stay alive to threaten my Master."

The arquebus was drawn and in her hand, aiming even as they jumped from building to building. It was a single shot, aimed at the torso. The lead hurtled, cracking as it broke the sound barrier.

Bellatrix had no idea that death was coming her way. She smirked as she prepared to give the order to annihilate Saber's Master. Suddenly, Berserker's hand flew past her. There was a hissing sound. Something in her Servant's hands was so hot that it was causing his hand to burn and steam. Heart pounding, she took a look. It was a small object, maybe half an inch in diameter originally. It had flattened against his hand and began to simply disappear. There was no mistaking it. That had been a musket ball, and she knew only one Servant who used guns.

"Archer."

There they were, looking down on her from the roof of a building. Archer was standing tall and proud. Her guns were held at an angle with outstretched arms. Potter was crouched, shimmering material of his cloak flapping in the wind. His hand was resting on the hilt of a Japanese sword and a wand was in his off hand. Berserker's mad eyes turned upon the pair.

Berserker's arm then snapped out, fast as lighting. Assassin hit with a jarring impact. The force of the blow was returned sevenfold by Cain's curse. Berserker showed no pain and merely roared with hellish rage.

"Stop or I'll kill you."

Draco came out, kneeling, with his wand aimed toward the dark witch. Saber and Lancer broke off their battle to turn against their new foe. Steel did not clash against bronze. Assassin got up and returned to his Master's side.

For Harry, the world suddenly became a photo negative. Breath was impossible. There was something wrong. However, he could not place the source of his apprehension. It was definitely not Bellatrix and Berserker. This was something much different. It was as if he could feel another's hate. While her hate was an all-consuming fire, this hate was like an ice-cold scalpel. It was a refined killing intent. Something was wrong. Unless he did something, he would die.

Bellatrix sniffed haughtily.

"Kill them, Berserker."

The mad priest was off like a starting pistol. Pavement shattered to gravel turned to sand under his advance. His target was the shining steel-clad knight. Saber brought her invisible sword up in a guard position. The callused fist slammed against the hurricane. If Lancer's strength was an ox, Berserker's was a freight train. The pavement sparked against her armored boots. The rail-thin priest loomed over her. He was so close that she smelled the alcohol in his breath. Instinctively, she jumped back from his other fist. Her sword blocked a quick jab. His leg was raised to slam into her stomach and push her even further back. Again, the mad priest was upon her. She instinctively knew that his fist could smash apart her head like a watermelon.

A pair of gunshots rang out, going through the priest and glancing off her breastplate. Archer smiled like a fox in the background. An icy aura surrounded the priest who roared with his insane rage. The fist met hurricane. It was only by using prana to reinforce her blow that she was able to block the attack head on. The mad priest had gotten stronger.

"Noble Phantasm," stated the knight of the sword.

Harry and Draco's twin blasting spells slammed against the shield of their superior opponent. They moved through attack and defense. When one of the teens faltered, the other would shield him to give a brief respite before the two were back in the fight.

"Malfoy, cover me!"

"Can do!"

A shard of glass turned into a thick wall of glass strong enough to resist gunfire. Physical barriers were also the only method to block the Killing Curse. Harry began to chant before tapping his wand against the ground. A spike rose up from the ground to impale the witch. Almost effortlessly, she danced around it and cast a spell that shattered their glass barrier. The two scattered.

"Didn't think I'd every say this," remarked Harry, "But we make a good team."

"I'm just as shocked as you are," returned Draco dryly.

Bellatrix tapped her wand against the ground, causing the earth to rise up in the form of ashen skeletons. There were a dozen of them. Harry's revolver was loaded, five blasting spells and one shield. The firing hammer dropped and one skeleton exploded. A barrage of gunfire smashed the remaining eleven apart, returning them back to the dust from which they came. Archer smiled. Harry knew that he had one chance against Bellatrix. That chance lay in his sword.

"Cover me. Try anything and Archer will kill you."

Draco nodded and rolled his eyes. He began to provide covering fire in the form of destructive spells. Harry was crouched, hand at the hilt of his katana. His stance was like a sprinter's. He began to run. His heart was beating like an engine. Time seemed to slow. His hand began to draw the blade. He screamed his wordless battle cry. The sword was raised above his head. Harry knew just how silly he must have looked, but he didn't care. It was only him, his sword, and his opponent. His feat pounded against the pavement like death metal drums.

Her eyes widened as she realized his plan. Archer turned to watch her Master. She didn't want to take a shot for fear that it would bring Berserker to his Master and near her own. If things got bad, she would take the shot anyway. She felt a tap on her shoulder

"Hey there."

Archer's face received an introduction to Lancer's shield. Her crossed matchlocks were barely able to deflect the follow-up thrust aimed at her breast. She flipped the guns around to use as clubs. However, these clubs were only a measure intended to allow her to buy the time to draw Heaven's gleaming, pure blade.

However, Lancer was rather easily forcing her back. Archer fought for every inch of ground she lost, but she lost the ground all the same. It was that damnable shield which, when combined with his armor, covered him from head to toe. Archer had an advantage which Saber did not; she carried two blades. Up went Heaven, a high blow. Out went Hell, a low blow. Unable to see this movement, Lancer did not know that Archer had drawn her smaller blade until it pierced his foot. A blow with his shield sent the knight of the bow flying, but the damage was done. In midair, Archer drew her matched pair of arquebuses and fired. The bronze shield took the blow, but it had been worth a shot. Of course, Archer knew that she had been careless to let Lancer sneak up on her. The scowling, helmeted visage kneeling to look at his sandal-clad foot was proof that she had managed to get in her own payback.

Harry's opponent, the witch, widened her eyes as she saw his charge. A quick spell and sweep of her wand created a small barrier. It was good enough to withstand his first strike, but shattered upon the second. After his sword rebounded from the shattered barrier, he twisted around and brought the blade under guard. Still shouting his war cry, he brought the blade up. The coppery blade bit into flesh. This was the place where the katana excelled, slashing blows against unarmored or lightly armored foes or, as Harry put it, cutting down unarmored peasants. Assassin appeared behind her. His stone sickle was ready to rip into her neck.

Sensing her imminent demise, the command spell on her hand glowed with power. Space warped as Berserker returned to fight directly beside his Master. The hand moved to smash Harry to pulp. In the split second, Harry knew that the power behind that fist would, for all intents and purposes, cause his body to explode into a bloody mess. A pair of gunshots knocked both hands away. Harry felt a sensation of flight as Archer carried him away.

"Good Servant you have there," said Draco.

"Thanks."

"I'll kill you for that! I'll rip out your eyes and feed them back to you! I'll-"

A trio of shots and a trio of arrows were batted out of the air by Berserker. Rider and his Master had arrived. More bullets and arrows tore through the air to get at her. Berserker smashed them aside were he could and simply absorbed the damage where he couldn't. The icy blue aura surrounded him. Berserker roared and caught one of the arrows before hurling it back with more force than had propelled it at him. They were really aimed at his Master, but it made no difference to the mad Servant. Lancer's keen eyes took in the sniper and mounted Servant.

"Stop!" shouted Saber, "You're just feeding his Noble Phantasm!"

Since she had taken a healing potion in the interim, Bellatrix laughed and said, "You'd be correct Saber! This is Rage of Winter~False Priest's Strength, the Noble Phantasm of the toughest Servant, Heroic Spirit Rasputin!"

Harry couldn't help but cock his head at the stupidity of revealing your own Servant's identity. Then again, the dark witch was not known for being rational.

"Assassin," began the aristocrat boy, "Wouldn't your ability be a natural counter?"

"Maybe. I'd rather not get hit by him, even if my curse would hurt him far worse than his own blow."

Draco gave a slight nod at his Servant's answer.

"If that's the case," boasted Lancer, "I would love to test his toughness. Let's see if he is, as you claim, 'the toughest Servant.' Maybe you'll think again after I pierce through him like virgin."

There were chuckles all around at the bronze Servant's quip. However, something still seemed wrong to Harry. Again, the world seemed to turn into a negative. There was a pulse of pure wrongness. Something was going to happen. He didn't know what was going to happen or how to deal with it, but it would happen. He could feel it in the air around him.

"Archer! We've got to get out!

"-Spark."

And the world turned white, brighter than the sun. It was a powerful magic. Archer's magic resistance would have done nothing. The hammer of god was dropped. The vacant lot was reduced to glass. The searing beam of annihilation. Vision returned to Harry. He looked toward the sky. Caster, on a broom, waved back. A large magical circle of glowing white was already beginning to disappear beside the cloaked Servant. Harry scowled. Caster had set them up for this. It was an ingenious lie that he should have seen through, but he had been blinded by anger. Harry sighed and let Archer carry him away.


	8. Settling In

Thanks to Pale Wolf on Spacebattles for his work in beta-ing. Thanks to everyone who reviews. Since this is a less popular story, every little review counts. Also, from here, I'm going to put in links for music I think to be very appropriate. For example, expect a link to "Sword of Promised Victory" from the Fate/Stay Night OST whenever Excalibur is being used. By now, I think you could guess Berserker's theme: "Rasputin" by Turisas.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

**Settling In**

"He set us up! I'm going to kill that cloaked asshole!"

"Calm down a bit, Archer. What I want to know, since Caster's actions fit with what we know about him, is why Rider and his Master came back even though he was wounded?"

"Don't know. The Master had access to some pretty nice military stuff. Rifles, grenades, silencers, night-vision equipment. I'd guess a background in law enforcement, military, or organized crime."

"Fair enough. I suppose that makes sense. Of course, I had issues figuring that out because, firstly, I was being shot at while trying to avoid getting hit, and I was secondly unable to see the Master clearly."

"At least you aren't dead."

"Thanks, Archer. I enjoy lacking new orifices ripped into me by supersonic lead."

"Still not a fan of guns?"

"I'm fine with yours and if other people use them, but I'm just not comfortable with them. Give me a sword any day."

"Frankly, I think that's a rather stupid position to take-ruling out an entire field of effective weapons-, but then I realize that being comfortable and without hesitation counts for a lot. Besides, you have magic. Be creative."

"Thanks. I need a pay phone to get MacTavish."

"One thing, Master."

"What is it?"

"You probably want to put away your sword and wand and invisibility cloak. Just saying."

"Thanks, Archer."

He smiled warmly at the red-and-black samurai. From his sitting position on the roof of a building, he raised a hand. Archer grasped it and pulled him up. The armor disappeared along with her weapons, and she went back to her jacket and shorts. Harry used magic to shrink his sheathed blade and folded the cloak which he then handed to Archer for her to keep it under her jacket.

"Let's move out."

Archer responded with a smile before grabbing him and stealthily bringing him down to the street level. Calmly, they walked out. Soon enough, they found a pay phone. The conversation with MacTavish was brief. Something was bothering him, but the man had said that he was coming right now. Maybe something had happened to his car; it was a nice Rolls-Royce that he had undoubtedly put a lot of effort into maintaining.

It took about twenty minutes for MacTavish to arrive. It was technically a new day by his watch, being twenty-two minutes past midnight. With Archer, Harry went into the car. MacTavish was silent, almost nervously so. He did not seem the type to be rattled, though.

"So, is that your Servant?"

"Yes sir. This would be Archer."

"A pleasure to meet you, Archer."

"The pleasure is all mine," responded the Servant addressed.

MacTavish gave a humorless smile.

"So," began Harry, "Something seems to be bothering you. What's going on?"

"Grail War."

"That's a rather large issue for me too. You don't have to worry about crazy people shooting at you with military-grade firepower."

"It's Berserker's Master, Lestrange. Father Hill has been annoyed with her nighttime activities. It's my job to run damage control for this, trying to preserve the secrecy of magic."

"What's that bitch been up to?"

"The usual for terrorist scum like her: killing people to get herself off. Disgusting shit."

"Yeah. I hate that sort of thing too. You seem to dislike it more than most."

"I fought against that kind of criminal scum for years."

They drove in silence for a little while longer. With the car stopped at a red light, MacTavish rolled up the sleeve of his plaid shirt to reveal a tattoo on a surprisingly muscled bicep. The tattoo depicted a winged gladius with a scroll bearing the words "Who Dares Wins." To Harry, he understood instantly. MacTavish was retired Special Air Service, the famed British SAS. As far as special forces went, they were among the best there was. Their work often involved dealing with terrorism and similar missions. It was only natural that someone such as that would have not tolerance for any sort of terrorist. It was a sentiment with which Harry wholeheartedly agreed.

"So," continued Harry, "How'd you get into the business of the supernatural? I'm sorry if it's something you don't want to talk about."

"No problem. You should know that at the highest levels, the British government is entirely aware of your little magical ghetto. The PM wanted to mobilize the SAS to deal with your Voldemort problem the first time around, but you flat out refused. Anyway, it was down in

South America. My unit and I came across a cult which we had orders to remove with extreme prejudice. These people were seriously magical and seriously evil. Not something I want to talk about. This almost leaked magic to the world. Your folks were pretty angry and wanted me executed. Father Hill was impressed and used the clout of the Catholic Church to keep me alive. And that's how I became indebted to him."

"How's that been working out?"

"Well, most wizards are surprised to know that the our AK is several times better than the magical AK. For example, with Mr. Kalashnikov's venerable Avtomat, I can hit a target repeatedly from two-hundred meters. The magical abra-kedabra is only good out to about twenty meters. Muzzle velocity on it is so slow"

"Thanks. Just what I needed, a lecture about why wizards suck and why guns are awesome."

MacTavish laughed and continued driving. He came to rather poor apartment complex. It looked visible dilapidated which flaking paint and overgrown grass and a weathered roof. Somehow, it still held together and managed to project a personality of stoicism which weathered the elements.

"Here's the place. Nominally abandoned, but it is a place that I have as a staging area in case things get out of hand. When I say 'out of hand,' I mean the city destroying type of 'out of hand.'" said MacTavish.

"Was it really that bad?"

"Last war? Yeah. A bit before my time, but Father Hill talked about it. My job is to minimize collateral damage, including taking out threats both to civilians and the secrecy of this war. Everything becomes a 'gas leak.' Seriously."

Harry chuckled in spite of himself at the black humor.

"Thanks a lot."

"S'okay. I've got more than one staging area. By the way, I'd like to ask a favor of you."

"What is it?"

"You know Berserker's Master, Bellatrix Lestrange, right?"

Harry scowled and nodded.

"I'd like you to take care of her. She's been up to some sick shit. Rape, murder, torture, the works."

Harry shook MacTavish's hand, smiling grimly.

"I'll do it. Not because I want fame or to be hero, but because it's the right thing to do."

"You're a good kid. I really admire how you can just see the world in black and white. Me, I just see it in shades of grey."

He tossed a key to Harry which the teen caught.

"What's this?"

"Room key for 104 in Building 1501."

"Ah, thanks."

"Good luck, kid. You'll need it."

Smiling brightly, Harry stepped out of the car with Archer. He waved as the man drove off.

"I bet he has some ulterior motive," commented Archer.

"Probably. It's not like I want to fight Bellatrix purely out of the goodness of my heart. Not only does it remove a potentially powerful enemy, but I simply don't like her."

"You are an onion, Harry Potter."

"One of me a day keeps everyone away?"

"You know what I mean; you have layers."

Spinning the key on its string, he walked to building 1501, which was the northern building. His shoes crunched on dead leaves and tall weeds. Archer followed a step behind to his right. Whenever his left foot came down, so did hers. Whenever his right foot came down, so did hers. Room 104 was on the first floor of the building, with a window facing out toward a parking lot.

"Archer."

"Yes, Master."

"Since he intended to use this whole complex as a staging area, how many people do you suppose MacTavish has available? Also, if you were in his position, how would you utilize this area?"

Smiling, Archer replied, "That's a good question, Master. Given that there are eighty flats in this one building, he could probably fit in the area of two-hundred fifty in this. With the other two, we logically get to a max of around seven-hundred fifty. However, that would be a rather inefficient method of using this facility. I would use one building as a barracks to simply house my troops. Another would be set up as a command center and armory. Finally, a third would be used to hide transport that couldn't simply sit in the parking lot or simply conceal that the building is not truly abandoned."

"Thanks. Want to take a look around quickly. If this is a possible staging area, there probably will be something like what you mentioned."

"I'll do that in spirit form. You should go to bed."

"No, I should work on turning this into as much of a magical fortress as I can."

"No, you shouldn't. It's past midnight. You're on your last legs. Just get some sleep. You'll probably screw up horribly right now. Besides, you have a legendary Heroic Spirit as your guardian angel."

"I can't fault your logic, Archer. In that case, good night."

Harry walked over to the door labeled "104." A quick turn of the key unlocked the door. The air smelled dusty. The floor was covered with a plain brown carpet with the exception of the kitchen, which had dull white tiles textured so that it would probably be quite comfortable for bare feet. There was an actual bath rather than just a shower, something that came as a mild surprise. Additionally, there was a television and a radio. Also, there was only one bed. Knowing Archer, this could only end poorly. He surely wasn't sleeping on the couch. Entirely exhausted, Harry stripped down and slipped into the covers.

xxx

"It is rather unusual to have a visitor so early," commented Nathan Hill.

"I'm not a man of the usual, Hill."

"How do you do, Dumbledore?"

"Well enough. Yourself."

"Fantastic. The Grail War will be interesting this time around. There are even three of your proteges competing. Though I must say that Caster and Rider's Master are the most interesting."

"I know you have something planned, Hill."

"What, to bring about a lasting peace after a war that has been waged for three centuries? I see no wrong in that."

"I'm watching, Hill. Step out of line and you will wish that the wrath of God was directed against you. God might show you mercy, but I would not."

"Please, Dumbledore. While you might have had feelings for Grindelwald, it was me that you feared during the war. Try me and you'll find I've retained my razor edge."

"I've only grown in power since the war, Hill. It would be best that you remove your personal goals from your job."

"What personal goals? I see only a politician in front of me, definitely one who has used his job to pull strings. You tell me to separate my own goals from my job. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone."

"Don't lie. Do you not remember 'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor?"

"Must you quote the King James Bible? I'm afraid that isn't what we use in the Catholic Church."

"Don't be smart with me."

"So says the intellectual 'Do not be smart with me.' You are a funny man, Dumbledore. You really are. Of course, you don't even believe in God."

"I highly doubt that you do either, Hill; however, that is beside the point."

"Do you really think that the Church, not the strange Church that appears in fiction, would have an atheist priest."

"I would think that I am looking at one. You are something of a rule-breaker."

"I've changed. Working within the rules is so much easier. Compared to rule-breaking, it's been a breath of fresh air."

"That would not surprise me, Hill. If anything, you have a fine mind."

"Thank you. As do you. Begrudging as it is, I must admit that about you."

"Indeed, it is never good to underestimate. Who do you think will win?"

"Berserker's Master -Bellatrix Lestrange if you must know- threatens the privacy of this war with her spree of murder and rape and similar crimes. I'm about ready to simply declare open season on her for being stupid. Saber, due to the boost from the land and the inherent strength of the class -as you well know- stands a very good chance of winning. I'm sorry to say, but your precious Harry Potter with his Archer does not seem to be in the upper tier of this war."

"Archer is not necessarily a weak class; how could you forget Gilgamesh?," said Dumbledore, "So they all survived that spell last night?"

"Indeed. Potter and Archer simply dodged. Lancer's Master burned a command seal. Saber's instincts saved her and her Master. Rider and his Master were simply far away from the site. Assassin and his Master are still alive, though I am not quite sure how. Berserker simply shielded his Master. Caster must be very disappointed; he had a great shot lined up."

"Well, I do have things to do. Farewell, former Master of Berserker."

"As do I. Take care, former Master of Saber."

xxx

Harry felt perfectly pleasant. He was snuggled against something warm and soft like a pillow. Almost like the rising and falling of a chest, he felt himself moving up and down, rocking like a boat in calm waters. Then his half-asleep mind realized that his head was not in the same position as it would if he were resting his head on a pillow. It was at this point that a singular thought ran through his mind: "Oh shit." He dared to open an eye. It was as he feared.

"Good morning, Master."

Almost -but not quite- gritting his teeth. Sometime during the night, Archer had slipped into the bed sometime during the night. However, he quickly realized that she was merely on top of the covers though that did not make it much better. During the night, he had ended up using her as a pillow. Knowing his Servant, he knew that she was teasing him. He became rather uncomfortably aware of the size of her bust. It was somewhat larger than he had thought, but then again she didn't exactly show off like that.

"Have you no class, Archer?"

"Who was the one snuggling up against my breasts? That's right, you."

Harry then became aware that she was wearing one of his t-shirts, which was more like a dress on her frame.

Sighing exasperatedly, he asked, "Any particular reason for the wardrobe change?"

"Well, I took full advantage of the bath. That was nice. Then I tried to use the television, but I couldn't figure out what to do with it. Don't worry, I didn't put my fist through it in frustration. At that point, I was walking around in a towel. I saw you looking so lonely. But then I feared that if I were to wear something so scandalous, you would take advantage of your poor Servant right there."

"You've got to be shitting me," said Harry dryly.

"I was already violated by your roaming hands. Woe is the poor maiden, Archer."

"I can't exactly control where my hands go when I sleep."

Archer merely grinned a toothy grin. Harry sighed.

"Back up a second, Archer," said Harry, "I did a little digging on Japanese history in the Sengoku period, but didn't you have kids."

Archer laughed before answering, "No. Did you notice any conspicuous breaks in my campaigns that would allow for a pregnancy? That's because there aren't. Firstly, I was a general and warrior. There is no way I would do something that would leave me bedridden like that. The children in question are the result of either adoption or the affairs of concubines. As far as demons go, I was -ironically enough- a chaste one. My desire was to set the world ablaze and push onward, ever forward to new heights."

"My mind has been blown. Everything I know is wrong."

"A wonderful feeling, isn't it."

Harry's stomach grumbled.

"I'm going to take a shower. Do you want me to show you how to use a TV?"

"Sure. Just because I know what it is doesn't mean I know how to use it."

Harry got slightly more dressed and walked over into the kitchen-living-dining space. There, he demonstrated the wonders of television and radio to his Servant. She was quite the astute listener and picked up the simple task quite quickly. He had thought that Archer would have taken longer because she was from the Sixteenth Century, but that was not to be, much to his relief.

After getting dressed, he felt very refreshed. It was a new day. There was a spring in his step. Archer was not teasing him at the moment. However, there was the minor problem of food. He had none. He also needed to start setting up wards for the place. Though he was not master wizard, he would do his best to turn the place into a fortress. Archer was watching the news. At least she had the decency to put on a pair of shorts.

"Archer~"

"I don't liken that tone."

"Would you please run out and get something to eat. I really don't care. Hot is preferable. Just take my wallet. It's in my back pocket."

"I can do that."

"One more thing, please don't spend all the money."

"Outside of general principal, why?"

"Diagon Alley, where Gringotts is, is likely to be a big target area. I don't want to take an off-chance of someone having an ambush ready."

"This war -any war- requires finances. You've got to just man up and be bold. Push forward, make them react. Once they are reacting, you control the battlefield. To control the battlefield is victory."

"Yeah, but if I'm ambushed, I'll be the one reacting to them. As Murphy says 'if an attack is going well, it's an ambush.'"

"I'll be there. Besides, attacking in public in broad daylight would be stupid. Would you do it?"

"No-"

"Then remember one assumption. Assume that the enemy is as competent as, if not more than, yourself. It is usually better to overestimate than underestimate."

"Bank trip?"

"Bank trip. It wouldn't be a bad idea to look into work of some sort, be it magical or mundane."

"Alright, I suppose I could."

"Glad you see it my way. Besides, you shouldn't be too worried with an awesome Servant like me beside you."

"Okay. Bye, Archer."

"I'll get something tasty."

"When in Rome, do as the Romans do."

"Gotcha.'"

Archer disappeared and, for the first time in a long while, Harry was alone. Out went the wand and the knife. Out went the book on warding rituals. While it could undoubtedly be done using conventional spellcasting at a much lesser cost, it was faster to use ritual magic involving sacrifice. Human blood, often that of the caster, was a common ingredient. For the sort of benevolent (to him, not intruders) protections he wished to create, it was a requirement. Given the seriousness of the conflict, he was looking for more lethal forms of protection. Then, because he knew that Caster and some of the better spellcasters could likely rip down his wards, there would be a layer of purely nonmagical defenses. He was leaning towards a combination of a claymore and what Timothy McVeigh had done. Rider's Master was probably the most likely to be able to deal with such a threat, given the apparent experience in mundane methods and equipment. Besides, in spite of personal distaste with wanton violence, there was a certain visceral feeling about lighting off twenty-three hundred kilos of explosives.

He took out the calligraphy paper he had obtained from the Hogwarts library. While the usage of such materials was, as Archer could attest, more popular in the East than West, it was infinitely more practical than the monoliths used in Western practices. First was a spell to alert him to any intrusions into his citadel.

This was served by a pair of concentric circles, the outer thinner than the inner, drawn in Harry's own blood. The script between served to define the circles, much like an archaic version of computer programming. It had a detection radius of one-hundred fifty meters and informed of him intrusions regardless of whether he was within the building or not with the image of the cocking of revolver followed by a flash of green light. It was personal, not something another spellcaster could mimic.

Next were a pair of parallel lines in the form of a stylized letter "I." Script ran between the lines, flowing and vertical. These were similar to muggle repelling charms in that they subtly influenced the subject to want to avoid the area. Subtle intrusions turned to brute-force mental attacks the further the subject penetrated.

Then, having seen the effectiveness of transfiguration, another element caused the earth to swallow up intruders. This was on semi-automatic. He could "tell" it to function autonomously, devouring those who would break past the mental compulsions. In terms of mental trigger, it operated much like a command seal.

The final element was a flourish that Harry simply could not resist. It was in the shape of a bolt of lightning. As its shape suggested, it used electricity. It operated in the exact same fashion as the hungry earth. However, it charged up the air around the target until a bolt of lightning was released. It was, as he had mentally nicknamed it "The Backhand of God," as it would smite those who would intrude much like a pimp would strike a disobedient whore.

With this array finished, he sat down. He was drained both physically and mentally. The world was swimming in front of his eyes; his limbs felt leaden. His last thoughts before all turned black were.

"Maybe I took too much blood?"

xxx

[Ever Present Feeling - www(dot)youtuberepeat(dot)com/watch/?v=IYmQG3LWJBI]

_"__Set arquebusiers along the Renogawa behind palisades. Archers should be prepared to support."_

_ The crimson samurai directed the preparations for battle. Thousands of men marched, beginning the laborious procedures. Hurry up and wait was the motto of the day. The cavalry waited, horses snorting. The infantry waited, weapons clutched in white knuckles. __The storm was here, the storm which set the Land of the Rising Sun ablaze__. The morning mist was thick and heavy. Sweat soaked the robes and clothes of the soldiers._

_ The Demon Lord stood firm, without pause._

_ The army of Takeda began its march. A full third of the army were the legendary cavalry, whose charge could smash aside even the bravest infantry. It was a maneuver drilled and perfected by the __Tiger of Kai, Takeda Shingen._

_ The Demon Lord cared not. The famous Takeda cavalry were led by a fool. They would drown in mud and blood. They would be choked by brimstone and shredded by lead. The warlord reviewed the troops, going down the line. Soldiers were encouraged. A quick pat here. A cup of sake there. Nervous as they were, there was a fire inside them. It was a fire that only the Demon Lord could ignite. They would march through the fires of Hell itself with their leader._

_ On the steamy dawn, hooves thundered. Dirt was torn into flying clods which were __trampled again and again. Behind wickedly sharp stakes, the army was ready. Fire and brimstone ripped across the field of battle. Bogged down in the mud as they were, the famed Takeda cavalry stood no chance against the disciplined forces of Oda and Tokugawa._

_ Entrails spilled onto the streaming ground as spears ripped into horses. Several spears would pierces through one. Such was the way of infantry fighting cavalry. Their strength was in determination and teamwork. Not even one man could falter lest the entire formation loose its cohesion and break like a cheap sword. To some, they might have shown bravery in charging into a hopeless fight. It was folly in which lives were wasted rather than spent._

_ The Takeda were broken. It was now time to rip through them. A hellish gunshot from the Demon Lord signaled the charge. __They were ripped apart, as if by a the demons of Hell itself. __Panicked and without unity, there was no other outcome._

_ At the end of that hot June day, it was the finest hour of the Demon Lord of the Sixth Heaven, Oda Nobunaga._

xxx_  
_

"Wake up, Master!"

A clapping noise of flesh on flesh.

"Wake up! I should never have let you do anything so reckless on your own."

Light and shadow. Light around him. Shadow on him. Pain. A railroad pike being driven through his skull. His eyes, like a butterfly's wings, fluttered open. Archer's concerned face was looking down on him. Soft. His head was resting against the smooth silk of her kimono. He groaned.

"What happened?"

"I saw you passed out on the floor when I returned next to a piece of paper with symbols written in your own blood. I thought you were dead at first. Don't do that, I don't think there is a Master better than you."

"I saw... your finest hour... mud and blood... along the Renogawa. Archer... you were magnificent. I... don't deserve... a Servant... like you," spoke Harry, pausing breathlessly every few words.

"Nagashino. That's what you saw."

"What happened? Why did I see that."

"Masters attuned to their Servants can experience the lives of their Servants through dreams. I believe that is what happened."

Harry nodded and took a look at his sheet used for the wards. There was a new symbol, a five petaled flower.

"Archer, what is this?"

Archer's eyes opened wide in shock and surprise.

"That's the Oda Clan crest."

Archer paused for a moment, then nodded as if affirming something.

"Though your reaction tells me it was an accident, I can now draw from the Mana in the area to refresh myself. What does the other stuff do?"

"The circles set the radius for the effects. The "I" thing causes people to want to avoid the place. The thing on the right causes the earth to eat people. That can be controlled. The thing on the left calls down lightning which can also be controlled. I call the lightning the "Backhand of God."

"I'd call it 'The Dick in the Sky.'"

Flustered, Harry replied, "Show some taste, Archer!"

"It fits. It comes down to fuck you up."

"I hate you. I hate you so much right now. I hate you so much right now because that actually makes sense."

Archer smiled like a particularly arrogant and satisfied cat.

"So, what did you find?"

"I bought McDonalds. Right now, I think its a good choice. It's processed so you should be able to digest it nice and easy. You look really pale and weak right now."

"I think I used too much blood."

"Ya think?"

"Coke and a burger with fries for you. I got myself a burger with iced tea. I prefer tea over soda."

Harry began to eat the fast food. It was greasy and generally unhealthy. He ate it slowly, chewing and savoring each bite. Obviously, it would not have any effect on Archer since she was a magical construct. She simply wanted to enjoy the sensation of taste. He sipped the drink, letting the sugar revitalize him. When he was halfway finished, Archer was already done.

"Thanks, Archer. I needed that."

"Someone has to look out for a careless Master such as yourself."

Harry smiled. Archer was definitely a Servant with whom he could get along.

xxx

The body was ripped apart by impossibly clean cuts. The ribcage had been cracked and ripped open in a bloody facsimile of angel wings. A post-mortem examination would reveal that death did not occur until all internal organs had been removed. It was blatant magical murder.

The four-man team, equipped with German Heckler and Koch MP5/10 submachine guns, a modification to fire the powerful 10x25mm Auto round, watched carefully. They wore all-black, from boots to cargo pants to longsleeved shirts to balaclavas. They bore no insignia, though one was obviously in command.

"Okay," said the leader, who stood somewhat ahead of the rest, "Idiot is threatening the secrecy of the War. Let me report in to Hill."

The man took out a black cellular phone and dialed the number. It was a secure line for occasions such as this.

"Father, we found another body. I think Berserker's Master must be removed as a threat."

"Understood. Thank you."

When he turned around, she was there with Berserker, the formidably tough Rasputin. In her black dress, she seemed like a fallen angel. There was nothing angelic about her features, though.

"Give it to her!" yelled the man.

Submachine guns roared. At this distance, perhaps ten meters, the submachine gun was the ultimate in personal firepower. Nothing else could fill the air with a swarm of humming lead hornets quite like they could. Short bursts ensured accuracy; these were well trained men with excellent trigger discipline. The projectiles fired were not normal jacketed lead. Each had a core of blessed silver and the hollow point took the shape of a cross. This was the specialized anti-supernatural ammunition available to the Church. Four magazines dropped to floor, and the men reloaded.

It should have ripped her apart, ripped through any magical protections. She should have been turned into bloody swiss cheese. She should have gained dozens of new orifices weeping bloody tears. Much like depictions of Christ on the cross, Berserker spread his limbs to resume the hail of gunfire. He endured the rain of lead. The cross of lead shook and bounced on its string as the mad Servant laughed. Deformed bullets dropped, hot and smoking, from his body. Even the one that had slammed right between his eyes did not so much as break the skin.

"Sir, I think we should have brought something bigger."

"Hindsight is twenty-twenty."

"Kill them, Berserker."

A fist stronger than steel, faster than a speeding bullet smashed into the face of the one who had opened his mouth to comment about the lack of heavy weaponry. His face caved inward, spraying blood and brains and bone shards. In its spasms, the corpse's finger pulled hard on the trigger. Recoil pulled it up, and Berserker's blow spun it around. One of the men had his leg perforated by his comrade's wild weapon.

Berserker spun around to eat lead. The black-clad man raised his weapon as a defense against the incoming fist. The weapon was horribly deformed and cracked by the jab. Using the power of his hips, the cross punched through kevlar and ceramic into the man's heart.

A quick uppercut snapped the neck of the leader back with a horrid cracking noise. Skin and flesh and tendons ripped, causing pumping arteries to spray bright red blood all over the floor.

The wounded man grit his teeth and pulled the pin on his grenade. The mad Servant loomed over him. He screamed a wordless battle cry and, crying, released the safety lever. Four seconds. Three seconds.

"God have mercy on my soul," whispered the last man.

Two seconds. One second. Zero. Shrapnel ripped into Berserker but did not so much as break the skin. Once more, Berserker shielded his Master from harm with his body. He turned to his Master, robes now coated with crimson.

"Let's go, Berserker."

Silently, the priest turned and walked to his Master. He grasped her hand, understanding this process. He had done it many times with his Master. He might be a mad dog, but a mad dog could be trained. They apparated out of the building, leaving the bodies to rot.

Hours later, Robert MacTavish came in on the scene riding an McDonnell Douglas 500 helicopter. It was a small, two-person helicopter with a bulbous glass cockpit. The militarized version, the AH-6 Little Bird, rode with the valkyries alongside the Huey in the film "Apocalypse Now." He dropped down via ladder with an M16 rifle, used by the SAS in lieu of the L85, equipped with the M203 underbarrel grenade launcher. It was the weapons system with which he was most familiar. Even if distances were too close for the grenade to arm, most things did not take kindly to a 40mm anti-supernatural grenade to the face.

The stench of death was overwhelming, both from the mutilated corpse his men had been investigating. They were definitely dead. Their wounds matched the sort of wounds that only one could deliver: Berserker. Though the Servant, being insane, was not culpable, the Master was an entirely different issue.

He radioed in, requesting for backup to transport the bodies and clean up the evidence. Immediately, he moved back to the helicopter. It was safer that way. As he had learned from years of fighting the supernatural, it was better safe than sorry. Still, he felt relatively secure high up in the sky with his trusty M16 sitting in his lap.

Hill had received the orders from the late team. Humphrey, Tod, Zack, and Nathan had all been good men. Though not people he knew very well, as he had never served with them in the military nor been on an operation with them, their loss cut him deeply. The orders were to assist the other Masters. The priest was going to make another announcement to the other six. The hunt was about to be started.

xxx

"Master, there's a fake bird hovering at the edge of your field. It has a message."

"Please get it. I need to finish up with this potion."

He had made enough to fill dozen bottles from the first batch. The potion was, essentially, a Molotov cocktail. Very volatile when it was combined with another liquid, but inert until then. It wasn't like he was making her do something he could very well do himself. Though it was rather silly, Harry decided that he would attempt to emulate Batman. He would rather rely on preparation than luck since he had the opportunity to do so.

Archer disappeared into her spirit form and left. Very quickly, she returned. A message was in her hands. It was written on standard 8.5x11 inch paper, the kind commonly used by printers. The note was neatly typed, though it appeared to be by typewriter.

"Essentially, Hill is ordering, under his authority as supervisor, each Master to send a representative to the Church by Six o'clock this evening. He has a message with regards to task he would like for us to complete."

"Would you like to be my representative, Archer?"

"Of course. I am your loyal Servant."

"I thought we decided to be partners?"

Archer just smiled.

"Just indulge in a little formality."

"Alright. What time is it now?"

"Five o'clock. I have an hour."

"How long would it take you?"

"Not long. Perhaps twelve minutes at most."

"Wouldn't you be able to move faster without the limitations of a physical form?"

"I could, but I also want to survey the city. Reconnaissance is always good. That would be the maximum speed at which I could survey to my satisfaction."

"Alright then. I'll be ready for a fight just in case. I'll double check the anti-apparition wards."

"I trust you'll use a command seal if something comes up."

"Of course, I will. By the way, I'm going to cook some chicken with pasta."

"Sounds tasty."

"It will be; I would cook nothing less for a Heroic Spirit."

Archer smiled and draped herself over the couch. She had found television to be less than interesting. So, at Archer's behest, they had turned to card games. He wasn't half-bad at poker and managed to teach Archer. As he expected, she was much better than him, but he had gotten lucky a few times. Harry started with dinner.

"Leaving," called Archer before disappearing into her spirit form.

xxx

As he had expected, six Servants were gathered at the steps of his church. Father Nathan Hill walked out with a slow, dignified purpose. There they were, some of the shining examples of humanity preserved by the World at the Throne of Heroes for some unknown purpose. Saber, royally resplendent, was present. The devilish samurai Archer was present. The wild Rider was present. The shrouded and sarcastic Caster was present. The masked and marked Assassin was present. The warrior of bronze, Lancer, was present.

"Gentlemen, ladies," he began, "There is an issue with regards to Heaven's Feel that I believe you and your Masters should know. For such an announcement, it should seem curious that there are only representatives for six of the seven Servants. There is a reason for Berserker's absence-"

"-Hey Priest!" called Caster, "This wouldn't have anything to do with Berserker and his Master's string of murders which might compromise the secrecy of Heaven's Feel, would it?"

Moderately annoyed but remaining calm, the priest in question answered, "Indeed, Caster. I am going to offer a bounty for the death of Berserker and his Master. One additional command seal will be awarded. My own forces will assist. However, they are not yours to command. Are there any questions?"

"Yeah," said Rider, eyes burning, "When can we start?"

"Immediately, Rider."

He grinned viciously. With the exceptions of Saber and Assassin, whose expression could not be discerned, the faces of the Servants present lit up with similar smiles. Smiling , though not nearly as viciously, Father Nathan Hill dismissed them.

"Peace be with you."


	9. Night Fight

Vague hint go. Thanks to the reviewers. Any and all feedback appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

**Night Fight**

"... So that's what Hill wants. He's offering a bounty for killing her."

"Works for me."

"Pasta is almost ready."

"I noticed. It smells nice. Nothing like the pasta I'm familiar with, but that cream sauce -what did you call it again?-

"-Alfredo."

"Yes, the alfredo smells delicious."

"I was originally going to do a chicken parmesan, but I really didn't have the ingredients necessary for frying the chicken. That and I really didn't feel like making tomato sauce from scratch."

"No problem. I know you tried your hardest. It should be quite pleasant."

Harry chuckled.

"It was a bit tough to decide how to cook the chicken. I eventually just decided on olive oil and a few herbs. Thanks for the fresh ingredients, by the way."

"No problem. If you look in the right places, they can be found pretty cheap. Besides, I didn't trust that boxed stuff."

"Thanks. I prefer working with fresh ingredients. A lot more work, but it lets me micromanage to my heart's content."

"It seems as though you cook a lot."

"A hobby. Originally, my aunt and uncle gave it to me as a chore. Burned myself a few times. At first, I really hated it. 'Woe is me, why must I do this bullshit.' Then I realized two important things around age ten. First, I got to eat what I wanted as much as I wanted within reasonable limits. Up until then, I would probably say that I was probably malnourished. Then, I started looking at cookbooks, talking with neighbors while doing chores for them during the summer. So, using the little money I got from chores, I began to go out and buy extra bits of ingredients whenever I went on shopping trips. It was pretty fun, I'll admit, staying up late just to sneak downstairs and try and cook something delicious. It's kinda' a girly hobby, but I enjoy cooking."

Archer gave him a small applause.

"If it means anything to you, I don't mind. I don't mind whipped house husbands."

Harry laughed. In fact, he laughed in a rather hard fashion.

"Dominance fetish? Why Archer!" he joked.

"Oh you~ Besides, I know that you can do you share of ass-kicking."

The Master and Servant both smiled.

"Well, would you like dinner to be served?"

"Of course, serve away."

He went off to the kitchen. Archer sat down at the table in her street clothes. Harry quickly came back with two plates of chicken breast on a bed of pasta. A small container of sauce was brought in addition.

"I was trying to think of the best way to serve the sauce. I didn't want the noodles to get soggy or anything, and I didn't know when you would get back. I decided to simply drizzle it onto the food when I served it."

"Archer get."

Harry smiled and began to drizzle the deliciously steaming sauce onto the food. He performed this first for Archer before then serving himself. Archer waited dutifully with a slight smile until he was seated before beginning to eat. She ate it with great gusto.

"My compliments to the chef," said the Servant.

"You are very welcome," replied Harry.

"I'm thinking something Japanese tomorrow night. Perhaps you could give a few pointers."

"Sounds like fun."

"What do you say to a little Berserker hunting?"

"Also sounds like fun."

Harry went and began to gather his things. There was something new in his arsenal, a trenchcoat. It had been used by Dudley a few years ago when he had tried for an intimidating thug look. It had been rather distinctive and given him a little too much notoriety, so he threw it away. Harry, having some fondness for longcoats, saved it. Now, it was treated with spells to make it hard as steel. Hopefully, it would give some protection against the bullets of Rider's Master. Several bottles of the incendiary solution went into his pockets. The sword was attached to his belt, the jacket's length serving to hide the weapon. The wand lay in one of the pockets, ready for quick access.

"So," he said, "How about we light up the London night."

There was an ambitious gleam in his eyes that had not been there a mere month before.

"Let's raise hell."

There was an ambitious gleam in her eyes that put his to shame.

xxx

In the dimly lit church, two men spoke. One was the aged but firm Father Nathan Hill. The second was a younger man with handsome dark hair in a grey, fitted Italian suit.

"Can you do this, Father?"

"Of course I can. I know everything regarding the Grail War. I know where you live."

"Thank you. I understand that giving dinner invitations is not exactly standard operating practice."

"Do you do this to hide your weakness or conceal your strength?"

"What!"

"I have a very good idea with regards to the identity of Lancer, Nikolai. If my guess is correct, you either have a very weak Noble Phantasm, given that there are no real legendary arms, armaments or skills for this person. On the other hand, you might have a very strong Servant with a Noble Phantasm fit to fight Saber on her own ground."

The young man, Nikolai, chuckled.

"I'd rather not say."

"Suit yourself. I'll be watching."

"See you later, Father!"

xxx

Archer and Harry sat on the roof of an abandoned parking complex. Several stories of concrete rose in a monument to the automobile and capitalistic consumerism. It was well past nightfall by now. Both had a hot meal in their stomachs. They sat together, laying back and watching the stars as best they could through the clouds and light pollution

"What's the plan, Master?" asked Archer.

"She hates my guts -a feeling that is obviously mutual. If I make myself known, she should come like a moth to flames. Then, I need you to keep Berserker unable from assisting his Master. I'm playing dirty. Do you know something of portkeys?"

"Yes. What about them?"

"I'll use my molotov cocktails to herd her into a portkey which will deposit her next to our residence. Then, I hit her with the Pimp Hand of God-"

"-Dick in the Sky. Also, you changed it-"

"-Whatever. Anyway, Berserker tends to be a power-hungry Servant. He should disappear pretty quickly after his Master dies."

"I like it, but Berserker gave Saber some trouble. I'm not sure I can hold him off long enough for you to administer the Dick in the Sky."

"Worst comes to worst, we use the portkey to escape. Does that sound good? Besides, I won't hesitate to use a command seal if necessary."

"Alright. How do you plan to get her attention?"

"I'm going to put up an image of the Death Eater insignia being swallowed by a phoenix. Something like that should rile her up sufficiently. If more Death Eaters come, well, they will be fodder for the cannons."

Archer laughed, starting softly but building up to a loud crescendo.

"That they will. I'll show them how Heroic Spirits are on a completely different level from mere mortals."

"I thought you were a partner to a certain 'mere mortal' as you put it?"

"You're an exception. Besides, you might as well be cannon fodder against me. It would be along the lines of 'Bang! You're dead!'"

Harry laughed.

"What say we get our party started?"

"Absolutely."

Harry stood up and cast the spell. A spark went up like a flare from a gun before exploding like a firework. Sparks flew into position, forming the rather inflammatory image. Harry chuckled and swung the invisibility cloak onto his shoulders. It was an absurdly useful advantage, one which only a fool would waste. It would not fool Archer, given that she was too sharp to be fooled by such petty tricks. Now, it was simply time to wait and watch the fish take the bait.

They did have to wait long. Berserker and Bellatrix soon arrived. Archer sat casually, legs crossed and eating an apple.

"Good evening," said the scarlet-clad samurai, "I'm glad you got the invitation."

"I'm going to kill you," said Bellatrix very plainly, "Or maybe not. Maybe I'll have Berserker violate you before you die."

"That would imply a degree of intelligence necessary to catch me, something which I am certain the mad Servant lacks."

The evil witch grit her teeth.

"Kill her, Berserker."

The mad priest, Raputin, rushed forward. The twin guns were already in Archer's hands and firing. Hot lead was spat from cold steel. Berserker rushed forward as it is the only thing he can do. His weapons are his fists; in order to use his fists, Berserker must close to point-blank range with Archer. Archer was, by far, the more versatile servant. Primarily, she used twin arquebuses from range, but she also was able to use the daishou pair of katana and wakizashi. For a fight such as this, it was in the best interests of Archer to keep the distance. Ten meters could be crossed in the blink of an eye, so Archer kept a distance of thirty.

Already, the priest has been hit several times and is bleeding. How can primitive matchlocks do what modern submachine guns cannot? This pair of matchlocks are Noble Phantasms, legendary weapons to whom the laws that govern their modern descendants do not apply. An icy white aura surrounds the mad Servant, reinvigorating him and giving greater strength.

"Ah," said Archer, "I forgot about that pesky Noble Phantasm of yours."

Archer knew that she faced a dilemma; the more she hit Berserker, the more powerful he would become. Berserker was also too stupid to try and dodge, so she could not confine him with gunfire. Hand-to-hand combat was simply a poor choice. She needed to fight him without actually harming him as that would cause his Noble Phantasm to activate.

Archer smiled. This was going to be fun.

Harry withdrew a bottle of the incendiary potion. All he had to do was get her to one square of concrete to win. He'd let the blood-bound defenses take care of the rest. Taking aim, he chucked the bottle just behind her. If she burned to death, that worked too.

She caught sight of the spinning bottle and blasted it in midair with an explosive spell. A large fireball bloomed on the battlefield. Her eyes snapped to his location. It made sense; an invisibility cloak couldn't hide the shadow cast on the ground. A barrage of explosive spells shattered concrete and cratered dirt.

Harry dove to the ground, attempting to minimize his shadow. The wand was out, readied almost like a pistol. There was no way he could win in a straight magic duel. He had to play sneaky and be creative. It was time for transfiguration exploitation. He tapped the earth, muttering an incantation. Several large spikes of hardened earth rose up like the writhing tentacles of an unspeakable eldritch horror. She tapdanced around the lancing thrusts before bring her wand to bear and destroying them with explosive spellfire.

Harry was already moving, a pair of bottles in hand. He had enchanted them with a "safety" in that they had a durability charm which prevented self-immolation should he fall or hit a hard surface. However, they became "live" once he had them in his hands. Bellatrix was caught off-guard by the explosive, but managed to escape from its deadly blast. It was working. He was herding her where he wanted her to go. Only fifteen more meters.

How long would that take?

How long could Archer hold off Berserker?

Would anyone else get involved?

What will she do next?

These were the questions that flitted through his head before he shook them off. Though the entire situation needed to be taken into account, he could pay with his life if he became distracted by thoughts outside of his goal.

Another bottle was swiftly hurled, bursting into a hellish fireball. The heat and light were so great that Harry had to shield his eyes. Surely nothing could survive such a blazing inferno? She did, of course, with spells meant to deal with witch burnings. Harry cursed. He only used three of the eight before they had been neutralized. Then there was the matter of which spell she was using. One had a duration of five minutes, becoming less effective over time. The other relied on the caster's continued concentration. Harry knew that he needed to devise countermeasures for both.

A little more transfiguration abuse was necessary. Air to chlorine gas was interesting, but had enormous potential to backfire. Something with firepower was necessary. Harry thought about the scariest and most dangerous animal possible. In spite of the dragons he had faced, his immediate thought was a bear. He then transfigured the ground into large bear whose growling visage would put fear into the hearts of all but the hardiest.

While the stone bear was charging, Harry was sneaking around for a cheap shot. When all else fails, hit it with your sword. Sometimes, simple brute force was all that was necessary. Besides, there was something simply more visceral and satisfying about the brutality of hand-to-hand combat.

An Avada Kedavra shattered the magic holding the bear together. Harry was close, perhaps fifteen paces from her. Idly, she pointed a finger in his direction and he was sent flying back. Were it not for his enchanted jacket, her spell would have fractured his ribs.

"Amateur," she commented idly, "I don't even need Berserker to deal with you."

Her smile was predatory.

Archer had found a comfortable equilibrium. At fifteen meters, she was able to draw in Berserker so that he retained interest in fighting her, but was able to move back to thirty meters if things got dicey. Of course, that was not to say that they remained fifteen meters apart. Berserker would lunge in close and Archer would deal with him at melee range. However, she would then jump back and maintain a fifteen meter distance. It was a juggling game, a lethal one. However, the warlord had experience in such operations. Even though her role in this battle was, at its essence, a very expensive decoy, Archer was proud to do it, as the overall strategy was sound and would lead to victory.

"I'll admit," said the huntress, "The trick with the exploding bottles was pretty good. The bear was a good piece of transfiguration. Your usage of the invisibility cloak and some sort of armor are pretty smart, too. You've got a good head on your shoulders, but you must understand why I am such a feared member of the Dark Lord's inner circle. There's a gulf between your experience and mine as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. That last sword attempt was pretty pathetic. I expected better. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, though."

Harry uneasily propped himself up on his elbows, struggling to stand. Another flick of her wrist and a wave of force slammed him down. He could feel ribs cracking. She wasn't halting his motion. Harry sadly had to admit that in his injured condition, it wasn't necessary. The wand was pointed at him without the emotion he would have expected from Bellatrix Lestrange. His first impression was wrong as she was showing an emotion, disappointment.

"I expected so much more of you. You were able to go up against the reborn Dark Lord, go against me several times, and prevail over truly ridiculous circumstances. Every time we fight, I can see you become better. It's truly disappointing that you are defeated so easily."

He knew the spell was coming. She would cast the killing curse and it would all be over. Harry began the process of readying a command spell to call Archer to save his sorry ass.

Something then smashed down like comet. Dirt cratered around the entry. It was the beautiful knight of the sword, Saber. The invisible whirlwind was at the ready. The blade began its inexorable movement. The command spell on the palm of her hand, taking the form of a many-headed hydra, began to burn bright crimson. The air warped around her as Berserker appeared, slamming his fist into Saber's chin in a brutal uppercut.

The petit knight was sent flying up and through the parking complex. Brick and concrete and rebar were smashed apart. However, the knight returned, flying through the cloud her impact had created. For his insanity, Berserker was a good fighter. He was able to avoid the prana-empowered slashes of her sword.

"Archer!" called Harry, but she was already at his side.

"Your orders?"

"Would you blow off her fucking head?"

"Saber or Lestrange?"

"Lestrange, please."

Archer smiled viciously as the matchlock was leveled at Berserker's Master.

"One thing, Master," began Archer, "Didn't we try the 'shoot her in the face' thing last time without much success."

"Good evening, Archer and you too, Master of Archer," stated a deep baritone voice behind them.

Immediately, they whirled about to face this new person. They faced a knight of bronze. The shield was on the ground and lance held in a casual position over his shoulder.

"What do you want, Lancer?" asked Archer.

"I was originally here for the battle, but Saber seems to have that in good hands. I figure that I might as well deliver the message personality. My Master is extending an invitation for you and your Master at the Nautilus Lounge tomorrow for six in the evening. Say you're with Kosmas."

After a quick look to Archer, Harry said, "I'll think about it."

"Please get out of my way. I have a bounty to claim."

Archer grabbed Harry and backed up. Twin guns were pointed towards the bronze knight. The promise of a command spell was too enticing. The spear and shield were brought up in a guard.

"Harry, move. Now."

Harry immediately ran, adjusting the invisibility cloak to provide concealment as he ran.

Archer fired her twin arquebus. Lead skittered off bronze. Dozens more shots were fired. Lancer could not charge forward. To do so would expose him to the gunfire. Even so, hot lead tore scraped his unarmored upper arms and thighs. Archer was, as he remembered, a tricky foe who would take advantage of the shields limitations with regards to vision. However, his shield offered a degree of immunity to the slashing attacks of her swords. Archer shifted to another position to the side to fight around the shield. Gleaming bronze brushed aside burning lead.

Unlike Archer, whose supply of ammunition was essentially unlimited, Lancer had to be considerably more conservative with regards to how he used his singular ranged weapon. Though not intended as such, the spear could indeed by hurled and he would then draw his sword. From the reading he had done, this would be like the tactics used by the Romans with regards to pila and gladius; however, he was loathe to do anything similar to that of the Etruscan upstarts who had the gall to claim that they were descended from Troy. In spite of it all, it was the best chance he had. Pin Archer with the spear and then finish her with the sword. She just needed to come a little closer.

For her part, Archer was not particularly focused on breaking through his defense. The constant crack of bullets was for the purpose of getting an idea as to how his mobility could be limited by bullets in order to ricochet a number of them into his back just like she did with Rider. An additional bullet would be aimed at Berserker's Master because it was Harry's last order to shoot her in the face. It was something she was more than happy to do.

Lancer was ready. Archer had approached within a zone of no return.

Archer was ready. She knew that Lancer could not evade.

One throw, easily smashing through the sound barrier.

Thirteen shots, six to confine, six to strike, and one for Bellatrix.

Unable to dodge, Lancer weathered the assault.

Unable to dodge, Archer twisted to avoid a mortal wound.

Six strikes slammed through the armor, embedding lead in the flesh of the bronze Lancer. The force knocked him down, slamming him into the ground like a child's plaything.

The spear ripped through the iron of her breastplate and into her side before impacting into the ground. The red Archer was pinned.

Harry was still in limbo, but when he saw a spear pierce through Archer, he knew something had to be done. It didn't matter. His injuries didn't matter. That Lancer was on a completely different level from him didn't matter. Lancer had harmed Archer. Even if Lancer had not been wounded as he was, Harry would have done it anyway. The wand was pointed in the face of the disoriented bronze Servant. It glowed and hummed with power as he pushed it beyond limits, synchronizing its pulse with that of his very heart and soul.

"Reducto!" screamed Harry.

It should have blown his head apart like a ripe watermelon hit with a sledgehammer, but it didn't. The power jerked Lancer's head around, but there was no actual damage. A muscled arm, strong as iron, grabbed his throat and lifted him off the ground.

"Wrong move, kid."

The short sword was drawn from the sheath at his hip, ready to gut him like a fish.

The blade flew from his hands before embedding itself point-first in the concrete.

"Wrong move, Lancer."

A second bullet flew towards his hand, forcing him to release Harry.

Archer ripped the spear from her side and grabbed her Master, making sure that he hit the ground softly. Lancer grabbed his weapon and, after looking towards where Saber and Berserker fought, left.

After gasping for air, Harry groaned, "Sorry, Archer. I didn't do it."

"It's okay. We're both alive."

Harry looked down to see his hands stained crimson by the blood flowing from Archer's wound.

"Think nothing of it. With your magical energy feeding me, I'll be better in no time."

"Do you require assistance, Archer?" came a cool, regal voice.

"Why not, Saber?" replied Archer, trying hard to keep the pain out of her voice.

Gauntleted hand grasped gauntleted hand; gleaming steel entwined with blackened iron. The younger-looking girl pulled up her older-looking counterpart without any visible effort.

"Thanks, Saber. I suppose that Berserker and his Master left," said Archer.

"That would be correct. Do you require any additional assistance? My Master ordered me to assist and help the two of you"

"No. We can make our way back," responded Archer.

"Saber, could you please tell Susan that I'm very thankful. I assume she's not right here," said Harry.

"No, I wanted her to be out of the chaos and danger of the battlefield. You, however, seem to have no problems," replied Saber.

"We're partners. It's something we agreed when I summoned her. It's not quite a master and servant relationship."

This brought a smile from Saber.

"Well, I wish you a good journey."

"You too, Saber," returned Harry.

The knight in blue left. The red samurai groaned and slumped against him.

"Is it over, now?" asked Archer.

"Yeah, let's get home."

Home. That was the only real way to describe the place. Even though they had only inhabited it for a short time, it was home.

"You don't mind supporting me, do you?" asked Archer, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

"Not in the least. Your legend was built upon the blood, sweat, and tears of the mere mortals like me. I'll help you just like them."

Archer gave him as much of a smile as she could after having ripped out a lance from her very own flesh to save him.

Slowly, they walked. Archer's blood dripped to the ground with every step, but she would not give up that easily. They made their way to the slab originally intended as a trap.

"Are you up for Lancer's Master's dinner party?" asked Harry.

"And show my strength, absolutely," returned Archer, putting on a smiling face.

They stepped onto it and felt a pulling sensation centered around their midsections before they, disoriented and dizzy, found themselves at the place they now called home. Archer groaned and slumped against him. Harry walked her into the small space which they shared.

The armor was gone, and Archer examined the angry red gash in her side. It had stopped bleeding. Harry felt as exhausted, as if he had just ran a few miles. It wasn't just the fight, but the drain of supporting Archer.

"Did you know that there's a way to give me some additional juice to speed up this whole healing process? I saw some magic users do it a few times in my day."

"What is it, Archer?"

"C'mere."

Harry did, and she brought his ear directly next to her mouth as she whispered a few choice words. Harry immediately flushed bright red.

After composing himself, Harry gave his answer, "I'm afraid not, Archer."

She smirked in spite of the pain, "Stop being such a prude, Master."

The way she said "Master" made him shiver.

"It seems to be getting a little warm in here; perhaps you should remove some of your clothes... Master."

There it was again.

"Uh, you should take a shower and keep yourself clean. Wouldn't want it getting infected or anything."

"Then you should be there to wash your Servant's back, Master."

"I think you can take care of yourself. You might want to heal in your spirit form, though."

Harry sighed and left the Servant to her own devices. She was becoming too good at pushing his buttons. He couldn't even tell if she was teasing or not. He set about to stripping off his battle gear. Then a cold shower could come, a very cold shower. A cold shower devoid of a naked Archer running hands along the smooth skin of her body. Harry sighed and set about to planning his next few steps in the war, distracting himself from any thoughts of his teasing Servant. Why couldn't she simply be serious after such a serious injury? But no, she felt such a need to tease him.

xxx

Bellatrix groaned as she turned around in her cot. That fight had been much tougher than she had let on to her competitors. Berserker was around in his spirit form, always watching so that she could sleep peacefully.

"Why hello there."

The wand was immediately in her hands as she searched for the person who had broken into her safehouse. It was warded to the best of her abilities, far in excess of any other Master in the war.

"Over here."

There was a soft rustle of cloth as the cloaked visage of Caster was revealed. It all made sense. There was no reason for her wards to defeat a Heroic Spirit immortalized for his magical skill.

Berserker appeared, already aiming to pulp Caster's skull. With a burst of green fire, Caster appeared right behind Berserker. As if dealing with a child, Caster tapped his back. The elbow missed his face by millimeters.

"Mrs. Lestrange, would you kindly-"

A fist smashed a hole into the wall.

"-Call off your attack dog?"

An upper cut forced him to teleport behind the already damaged wall.

"I really just want-"

Berserker smashed through the wall, fists firing like bullets at the elusive spellcaster.

"-To talk with you-"

It took all of Caster's effort to redirect the fist and step around Berserker.

"-About killing Harry Potter."

"Stop, Berserker."

As her loyal dog, Berserker immediately stopped, his fist mere inches from Caster's nose. Using one finger, Caster moved the fist away from him. He pulled back the cowl of his cloak, which had fallen from the winds caused by the speed of Berserker's fists.

"You! You're-"

Caster shushed her.

"Would you not say that our goals are in alignment?"

"Yes," admitted the witch, "our goals do conveniently coincide."

"That's excellent."

"I do have one question for you, Caster?"

"What would that be, my dear?"

"How were you summoned? Something like you should be impossible."

"It was based upon a simple desire shared by myself and my Master."

"And what would that desire be?"

Caster transfigured some of the rubble into a chair, where he sat with his legs crossed in a figure-four American style.

"Quite simple: to kill Harry Potter."

"Would you be so kind as to enlighten me with regards to your motivations, Caster?"

"Again, it is very simple. Because of him, my life is a living hell. This is my only chance for a respite and killing him will be satisfying, though it won't do anything."

"I see. Your Master?"

"Her motivations are rather different from mine. For her, it is family business. Are you up to date on your medieval history, the magical kind?"

"I'm afraid not," admitted Bellatrix, shrugging her shoulders.

"My Master is a von Schaefer. They are a magical family from Germany. Traditionally, they are potters. Anyway, a certain branch of the family rebelled from the main family during the Thirty Years War, as they were Protestants in a primarily Catholic family. They moved over to Britain and formed a certain family, taking a name based upon their traditional occupation. I assume you are bright enough to connect the dots from here."

"They become the Potters which we know and loath."

"Congratulations! Have a cookie."

Caster conjured up a steaming and delicious-looking chocolate chip cookie. Bellatrix was distinctly unimpressed. After shrugging, Caster ate the cookie.

"Is the family dislike really that strong?"

"To an extent, but you must realize how personally my little Master takes it. The eyes of the Wizarding World are focused upon one Harry Potter. Little Master thinks, and I have to agree, that she is the better at magic. She also thinks that the von Schaefer family is worth far more than the Potter family."

"Is there anything else to it?"

"Oh yes. If possible, she would like to him hers. Not in a creepy incest way, mind you."

"Yours was the mind stuck in the gutter."

"Moving on. She also has a desire to break him and see him suffer."

"Now that, Caster, I can get behind. However-"

"You're going to refuse, aren't you?"

"Yes. My lord is going to be the one to kill him, but I do have his permission to kill Potter if possible. I'm afraid your little Master will be stuck playing with her doll's."

"A shame. You're really letting me down."

"Goodbye, Caster."

"C'mon, you know you want to."

"Goodbye, Caster."

"Stop being no fun."

"Goodbye, Caster."

"Don't you know that all work and no play makes Bella a dull girl."

"Goodbye, Caster."

"Geez, why do you have to be so pushy?"

"Goodbye, Caster."

"I'm leaving already."

"Then leave!" she snapped.

As he did before, Caster melted into the air. Then there was a burst of green fire. Silence came afterwards.

"What the fuck is going on?" asked Bellatrix to herself, receiving no answer.


	10. Evening Meal

At the moment, I do all my own editing. If you see a misspelling or something, please tell me so I can fix it. For this chapter, you're probably noticing a few changes. After a fair bit of consideration, the story is now rated M. Even if fewer people are likely to read it because of this, it suits the tone and content (previous and future) much better than a T-rating. Also, you probably notice that Characters changed to Harry and Archer. It is because they are the main characters of the story, and, should I do any romance, it would be between the two. I still have not made up my mind about it.

* * *

**Chapter 10**

**Evening Meal**

"So, shopping?" asked Archer.

"Yes, shopping," replied Harry.

Harry looked up from his pancakes.

"These are really tasty, you know. Maybe you could become a chef so legendary that you could become a Heroic Spirit. That would be awesome," said Archer, stuffing the syrup soaked food item into her mouth.

"Thanks, Archer."

"Anything in particular that you want?"

Harry laughed, "Me, I'm going to get a blazer and bowtie. I already have the trousers for it. What do you want?"

"A nice dress with heels. It would be red, of course. I'm thinking backless. I know you like my sexy back; I like my sexy back."

"Baby got back," commented Harry idly, drinking his morning tea. By now, he was more or less inured to her teasing. It was fun, and it helped make her something more than a distant heroic figure. Instead, she became a real person with whom he could interact and have fun. Speaking of fun, he made a mental note to never agree to strip poker with Archer. He knew that he would end up sleeping naked on the couch.

Once breakfast was finished, Harry cleaned up as it was his kitchen, not Archer's. Archer in turn, changed over into her street clothes.

"Wait," asked Archer, "Don't you already have a tie?"

"I do," he answered, laughing, "but it's a school tie. I'd prefer a black bowtie with this. Maybe a waistcoat so I can look somewhat dignified if I have to remove my jacket."

"I'll make sure you don't pick out anything stupid-looking."

"I picked out what you're wearing right now. I would say that I have a modicum of sensibility when it comes to clothing."

"You're so sweet. You're also getting me a nice dress. For a hero of my status, it must be very nice."

"Of course, Archer."

Harry smiled, and Archer grinned back.

"Shall we go, Harry?" asked Archer.

"Oh shit, another trip to the bank. I hope I don't have to go again."

"Deal with it."

"You seem pretty chipper for someone who was impaled by a spear just last night."

"You provide a luxurious amount of magical power for me. It's really quite pleasant, like a fine sake."

"I'm glad you think of me like booze."

"Not booze, there is a difference. Booze would just be what you drink to inebriate yourself. A fine drink is one that can be savored and enjoyed. Your power isn't just something which I simply take in because I need it to remain in this world; it' something I enjoy taking in."

"Thanks Archer."

Archer and Harry found themselves within a formal clothing store. In this case, they were looking for a dress for Archer first because Harry already had much of what he would need for such an occasion. There were just a few additional things he would like. In this case, he was hoping for a bowtie and waistcoat.

xxx

"How does this one look?" asked Archer, coming out of the changing room.

There were several requirements for Archer's dress, as put down by the Servant herself. First was color; it must be red. Second was the pricetag; thankfully, she did want to bankrupt him. Third was that it had to look nice, but in Harry's opinion, all of them looked nice on her.

The first had been an ankle-length, strapless dress. Archer liked it, especially with heels but had found the way it clung to her to be uncomfortable. Harry just thought that it poorly accentuated her bust.

The next had broken the color requirement, being a little black dress. It had been a polite suggestion by Harry, since the knee length dress seemed like something that Archer would like as well as accentuate her own beauty. He had to acknowledge that Archer was quite pretty, stunning actually. However, Archer did not like it. That was the end of that.

"Is that who I think it is, Archer?"

Archer whipped her head around.

"Indeed. The silver knight herself has graced us with her appearance."

"I thought you actually liked Saber."

"I do actually, but since we are well into the hostilities of the War, I am somewhat obligated to be hostile."

"So you weren't serious?"

"Correct. I actually do like Saber, but I was making an obtuse comment because I can."

"You are really strange. I honestly hope all the other Servants are as weird as you."

"Of course, Master."

"Let's say hello. It's only polite."

"Fine by me. It looks as though they're out doing the same thing we are."

"Lancer?"

"Probably."

"I wonder who else was invited."

Harry waved, smiling brightly. Saber immediately picked up on this and snapped to attention before relaxing, but not entirely, upon seeing Harry's non-threating expression.

"How do you do?" she asks, greeting.

"Quite well. What brings you and -I assume- your Master here, Saber?"

"An invitation. Something more formal in my size was required and something more mundane was what my Master required."

"Lancer and his Master, right?"

"Correct, Harry Potter.

"Same reason here."

"Harry?"

It was Susan.

"Hello. Nice to see you too."

Things went at a leisurely pace, Harry feeling somewhat left out as the only guy. Thankfully, Archer's fun personality more than made up for it. With them, Archer was able to quickly find a dress that suited her tastes. The two pairs left on friendlier terms. Susan was someone who registered in the periphery of his mind, but he had to admit that she was an interesting person. And she saw Harry Potter, not the Boy-Who-Lived. If anything, he was grateful for the opportunity the Grail War offered in being able to know her better.

"That was a pleasant way to spend a morning. Thanks for the company," said Harry, waving goodbye. Archer gave a pleasant smile.

"We'll see you later, Harry. You too, Archer."

xxx

"Damn, it's pretty cold."

Breath frosts in the air.

"I understand, Harry. However, as I am a magical construct, I am not bound by your petty 'temperatures.'"

"This sort of weather in summer is ridiculous. It hasn't been this cold any other night."

"I don't care. Besides, you like to see me in this dress. A coat would simply ruin it."

"I must agree with your impeccable logic, Archer."

She had managed to find a dress. In this case, a beautiful red dress made from a smooth, silky material. The pricetag was the only indication that it was not actual silk. The bright scarlet was but a shade lighter than that of her armor. The halter top did indeed, as Archer put it so eloquently, show off her back. That was not all it showed off, though. Slits in the dress showed off her toned legs which gave off a predatory air with every step.

"You sure about this, Archer? I could do it better and faster than this."

"What you take for granted, I enjoy. It's not like you have a car."

"Fine."

Harry called a taxi on a pay phone. It arrived within fifteen minutes. A small wad of bills and directions were thrust into the driver's hands. Archer and Harry slid in, Archer with a grace he did not know that she possessed.

"The Nautilus Lounge, seriously?" asked the driver.

"It's on invitation. We have a rich friend throwing a dinner party," replied Harry.

"Ain't that how it always goes."

"Yup. Wouldn't be going there otherwise."

"I see. Well, have a good time."

The ride continues in silence. Archer feigns the actions of vapid eye candy. She isn't a good actor is the illusion is immediately dispelled in her eyes. They are too clever, too focused, too smart, too driven. He can't help but smile at his Servant; he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Here you are, the Nautilus Lounge. Best of luck."

"Thank you."

Harry and Archer both stepped out. The Nautilus Lounge, an expensive and trendy restaurant, serving expensive seafood. There was an enclosed balcony for a riverside view. Low, shifting lights in greens, purples, and blues gave a submarine feel. It suited the Jules Verne theme of the restaurant. Escorting Archer, Harry walked up to the front desk.

"Excuse me, we're here with Kosmas."

The lady at the desk turned to fierce-looking man with a dark, curly beard. In spite of his warlike appearance, he was well dressed in a pinstriped suit with a crimson tie. He had a deep Mediterannean tan. If anything, he looked like a Greek statue given the breath of life.

"They are," confirmed the man before turning to Harry and Archer, "Please follow me."

Archer arched an eyebrow, "Lancer?"

"Indeed. I must say that that dress does look wonderful on you, Archer."

"The suit was not what I expected, but it is quite nice," complimented Archer.

"The same red as your cloak?" asked Harry.

"Of course," replied Lancer, smiling.

It was such a strange thing, such civility after a life-or-death battle. But such was the Grail War. As Lancer maneuvered through the crowds up to an upstairs lounge, Harry and Archer were able to take in the actual restaurant, rather than mere accounts of it. The inside was a bizarre combination of Victorian architecture with elements of art nouveau's sweeping curves and art deco's ornate and streamlined but solid features. Of course, it resembled the interior of a submarine in no way. The brass and bronze highlighted the nautical theme. Everywhere, at any given point in the restaurant was something interesting. The quality of the food served enhanced the atmosphere and cleverly fit in with the Jules Verne theme.

The lounge, surprisingly, had no window. Instead, there was a table set for eight. Sitting at the head was a man who's appearance could be described very simply: rich playboy. From the high quality of his grey Italian suit to his unbuttoned silk shirt and shined leather shoes, his appearance screamed "I'm a rich playboy."

"Nikolai Kosmas, a pleasure to meet you in person Mr. Potter. You too, Archer."

"Of course," replied Harry. Archer gave a slight smile and raised eyebrow.

Harry extended his hand and Kosmas took it and smiled. His handshake was firm and his grin sharklike. In spite of it, he felt like a decent guy.

"So, I assume four more are going to arrive."

"You're a little early, actually."

"Better that than late."

Kosmas chuckles.

"So, what are you going to have tonight? I'm paying."

Harry took his seat and looked at the menu. Archer sat next to him.

"I'm thinking of the house salad to start and the filet mignon and shrimp as my entree. If you've been here before, I'm curious as to your own recommendations."

Nikolai smiled and replied, "I have, in fact. That is a nice choice."

"I'm leaning towards the rack of lamb myself," said Archer.

"A big eater?" inquired Kosmas with a pleasant smile.

"I didn't grow to become the hero I am by some sort of 'dieting.'"

Archer grinned a silly grin.

"That's the spirit," said Nikolai, giving a cheesy thumbs-up.

"Who else is coming, might I ask?" inquired Harry.

"Saber and her Master and Rider and his Master."

"I see. Any particular reason?"

"Berserker."

Harry nodded, "Of course."

"And Lancer saw something in all of these Servants. That spark of leadership and confidence so familiar to him. The Masters were common courtesy on my part."

"Interesting accent you have, there. It's not much, but your English sounds a bit off."

Nikolai laughed, "I am a Greek. I suppose it is not the most common of accents. In spite of coming here for my education, nothing I do could get rid of that bit of accent."

Another two arrived. One was bulky with a thick, drooping moustache. His features marked him as Rider, the Mongol. His dark hair was wild and untamed. He frowned upon seeing Archer but remained silent. Beside Rider was a woman. She was dressed in a military-style suit in an olive green. It probably was a part of a military uniform but there were no ranks attached to the normal places. The cut was wrong, though, for a uniform. It had been custom tailored for looking nice. Her tie was a formal black. She looked Chinese and her hair was drawn up into a neat ponytail. Brown eyes frigid as a glacier observed the room and its inhabitants.

The man stepped forward to shake Kosmas's hand.

"Rider," he said gruffly.

"Nikolai Kosmas, a pleasure to meet you. As for you..." he said, turning to the Master.

"Meiling Huang," she said curtly, taking his hand and giving a handshake that looked painful.

Archer was unable to hide a small frown of displeasure. Her much greater internal distaste was apparent to Harry through their link. Harry was not the most amiable either.

"Bitch tried to shoot me!" he communicated.

"I know. Were it not in the interest of this continued spirit of parley, I would be shooting her in the face right now. Repeatedly shooting her in the face," returned Archer, "Besides, she's Chinese. What good things ever came out of their?"

"Your writing system," offered Harry.

"Right. Moving on."

Harry took a look at Rider's Master. She didn't seem very fond of Archer either.

"So, what do you want, Master of Lancer?" she asked, refusing to acknowledge him as anything but a competitor to be brutally murdered. For all the empathy in her eyes, he might as well have been a piece of meat. Kosmas ignored it. The shark behind his eyes looked the abyss in the eye and smiled back.

"To talk and enjoy fine food. Would that be too much to ask for, Meiling Huang?"

"Not at all. I would assume you wish for a cooperative effort against Berserker."

"Correct. As for now, I suggest looking at the menu as we wait for our final two guests. "

Harry leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow.

Small talk began to be made. It was boring mundane subjects like weather.

"So, what does 'the Harry Potter' do when you aren't off fighting Grail Wars?" asked Kosmas.

"Studying and chores. Though I do enjoy making a good meal and can make a garden go from crappy to nice," replied Harry.

"A gourmet, are you?" inquired Kosmas with a friendly, disarming smile.

"I don't just appreciate the food, I make the food. Therein lies the distinction."

"I would say that the fruits of his kitchen labor are well appreciated. Besides, I think my Master's place is in the kitchen. And, thankfully, he is not so boring as to simply make sandwiches," said Archer, adding her two cents.

In spite of all attempts to suppress it, Rider's Master could not refrain from a small upturning of the lips at these words of gender role reversal.

"So, ah, Ms. Huang, what do you do outside of the Grail War?"

"If you must know, I work in the People's Liberation Army's Special Circumstances unit. In part, this is why I really would enjoy the pleasure of killing Lestrange myself. I cannot stand terrorists and criminals. They are scum whose skulls I would grind to dust under my heel."

After this, there was something of a pause. Then she smiled, almost pleasantly.

"I also enjoy tai chi chuan and European operas. Der Ring des Nibelungen is a particular favorite. Hitler might have liked Wagner, but Hitler also liked dogs."

"What a clever usage of Argumentum ad Hitlerum," commented Kosmas, "As for me, magic is a family thing. My day job is running an normal oil company in North Africa. My own romantic nature simply couldn't resist. As for hobbies, I love sailing, especially with a wooden boat with only the stars as guidance."

"Family?" asked Harry.

"I thought you- oh right, they've dumbed down the curriculum since my cousin was there. The Kosmas family is the third oldest Greek wizarding family. We have a large number of squibs, so our connections to the mundane are much more solid than most."

"What about you, Lancer?" asked Archer.

"I enjoy some of the simpler things in life. Good food, good wine, good companions. The combination of 'television' and 'rugby' make for enjoyable times. Now, I might as well be the coach of one of the school rugby teams. Those kids are going to win their league."

Lancer smiled happily.

"For me," began Rider, "I love to crush my enemies, see them driven before me, and to hear the lamentation of their women. It is from that I gain my pleasure."

"I apologize. I really should not have lent him Conan the Barbarian."

"I find these 'movies' to be a very enjoyable waste of my time. It doesn't contribute to the Grail War, but I can't help but enjoy myself," explained Rider, smiling a truthful smile, "And you, Archer?'

"To service my Master as best I can."

"Not everyone gets your sense of humor, Archer. You're just too deadpan."

"As for hobbies, not really. For that sort of thing, I simply drift about and enjoy it as it comes. With this modern world, it's such an enjoyably foreign experience."

"I see, Archer. Outside of war, you just drift through life, doing whatever strikes you at the moment," said Lancer.

Archer leaned back and replied, "That's pretty much it, Lancer."

"I see."

"I must wonder, Harry Potter, why is it called a 'Ministry of Magic' since it is essentially its own independent country."

Harry sighed.

"I've been wondering. Maybe the real British government would be able to clear up the mess. They might need to burn it down first, but I think they'd be able to fix something that's basically headed for its own destruction. The thing is, the Ministry of Magic is so stagnant, and the people are so stagnant. After several huge wars, there haven't been any changes whatsoever, just a return to the status quo. It's like the sort of lazy storytelling you get from a kids' program. If things go back to the status quo, then the same conditions that caused the fighting will resurface and maybe the Ministry won't be nearly as lucky as the last time."

"Hm. In China, our plan is to reveal magic in 2000. Secrecy is a horrible defense to rely upon because secrecy is a one-time defense. If secrecy is gone, then it can't be used again. Not everyone sees eye-to-eye on this, though," explained Meiling.

"But when you have the ability to remove memories."

"-You've really been brainwashed. Look around and look at all the camcorders and phones and the internet. There's no way in hell secrecy can last for you. It would be best to simply do away with it as soon as possible."

"Yeah, I suppose. I bet you catch some flak for your opinions."

She smiled.

"Correct. That's would be my wish, to dissolve the whole masquerade between the supernatural and the mundane. Besides, who doesn't want to be on the side with nuclear weapons."

"You're against the magical government."

"Does it look like I work for them. I work for the legitimate authority over the land."

"Sounds interesting."

"It is."

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," said Lancer, getting up from the table.

He turned and left the room, being careful to not slam the door. His footsteps receded, and there was silence. Kosmas closed his eyes and put his hands behind his head as he waited. The footsteps returned. The door opened, and Lancer arrived with Saber and Susan.

Saber was dressed a an elegantly cut evening gown of white. A small gold necklance hung around her neck. Her hair was in its usual fashion, but that only enhanced Saber's natural beauty. She was simply stunning. Susan wore a simple black dress elegant in its simplicity.

"Ah. It appears as though the last of our guests have arrived. I am Nikolai Kosmas, Master of Lancer. Tonight, we are here to enjoy a fine dinner and plot out a method by which Berserker can be killed. That would be all of us."

Nikolai paused before continuing.

"I bet you are wondering why exactly you six. It has a lot to do with you Servants. My own, Lancer, saw something in you. He saw a spark of leadership and nobility that he finds to be missing from the others. I think we all can agree that Berserker and Bellatrix Lestrange should be dead."

There were nods of assent all around.

"I don't expect anyone to reveal their Servant's identity. I don't want to and I doubt you do. But for the moment, let's simply enjoy a meal, shall we. This serious talk can wait until after our stomachs are filled."

xxx

Click. Click. Click.

A shoe tapped on brick.

Words of power and flourishes of a wand. Then a purposeful and arrogant advance. An advance with rightful arrogance. The huntress steps forward.

"Oh Draco, Auntie Lestrange is here to see her lovely nephew."


	11. Hagia Maria

Yeah. I did some minor edits. I'm overall happy with my prose after a few months. It can be stilted, but I'm drawing on my translations of things like _The Odyssey_, _T__he Illiad_, _The Metamorphoses_, and Livy's _Ab Urbe Condidita. _This is a reminder that the story is still kicking, it's and something special to the readers who were here from Day 1 to those who are just discovering it. I'm also going to be working on an original work, which is admittedly based on the original elements of my other fanfic _The TSAB-Acturus War_.

For those who remember, this was my original parting note: "The rest of Chapter 11. Right now, I'm going to put the story on hiatus. I just got an offer from a friend of mine to join his OELVN team and write/program a VN. Since the project is commercial (ie. sell at convention), it takes precedence over fanfiction. So, the next chapter is likely to come sometime in July. Not giving up on the story, though."

That didn't quite work out, which you probably saw coming; however, I do plan on getting it published whether as freeware or commercially. Anyway, here's the chapter with some tightening and better quality control.

* * *

**Chapter 11**

**Hagia Maria**

_Cold. Freezing cold._

_Such was life in the winter wonderland. Or it might have been a wasteland. The summers were choked with dust and springs filled with mud. The land was harsh._

_So faith was put into God. A young man took up the priesthood. He was devout and caring. He followed God and saw himself as an instrument of His will._

_Then, there was something. Perhaps the drudgery. Perhaps it was seeing all the world's evils. Whatever the cause, the young man became a hermit and became alone._

_Isolation and contemplation. The Mad Monk was born._

_Virtue became vice. He knew it. He reveled in it. He reveled in his vices, women and alcohol among them._

_There was still some shred of devotion left in him and using his gifts, he cured a dying boy. As such he was invited into the house. His corruption spread like tendrils, infecting the minds of those surrounding him._

_Many times, they tried to kill him. This only angered him further. Their vices were just as plain to see as his own. With each attempt upon his life, he grew stronger and tougher. Such was his way. Already hardened by the frontier, he hardened more._

_However, they killed him. Stabbed, poisoned, shot, and thrown into an icy river. In the end, none of these killed him. It was cold._

_Freezing cold._

xxx

The wine was getting to him, Harry decided. Kosmas had ordered wine for everyone. He couldn't admit that he was underage. That might give them an edge on him. He was unwilling to risk that. Nonetheless, things became much more lively with the wine. Archer was the center of attention, drawing them in and regaling them with her wit and sense of humor. He would have expected the ever-radiant Saber to be the center of attention, but the Knight of the Sword seemed distant and cold.

He tipped back his wine and took another sip, leaning back. Harry was more than content to let Archer do her thing. In spite of their battle, Archer and Lancer seemed to be getting along quite well. A glance towards Rider showed him unamused by Archer, but enjoying the festivities. As for Rider's Master, she was as unreadable as ancient Greek to him.

"Alright," said Kosmas, who seemed rather nervous when all the Servants, heroes of legend turned their gazes upon him, "I believe it would be a proper time to discuss the plan for dealing with Berserker."

He paused, clearing his throat and then sipped from his drink.

"It would my idea to lure the two into a large open ground. I fear that we may be required to use Noble Phantasms which might be quite destructive. Furthermore, the open terrain is a hindrance against a fist brawler like Berserker. However, I am not sure how to attract her attention."

Harry set his glass down.

"Trust me, Mr. Kosmas. Bellatrix is quite easy to rile up."

Harry then interlanced his hands.

"I see. I trust you have a plan, Master of Archer."

Harry nodded, smiling.

"I would just blow her brains out, give her another eye socket, and be done with it."

"I wouldn't trust you with a gun around my Master," stated Archer, arms crossed over her chest.

"I see," she said evenly, meeting Archer's gaze.

"Perhaps if you have such a problem, Archer, you should seek allies elsewhere," commented Rider with hostility.

"Ladies, Gentlemen," implored Kosmas, "We won't be having any fighting in our war room."

Surprisingly, calm followed.

"Where might we do this?" asked Saber.

"I do know of a soccer pitch just outside the city proper," said Harry, "It has the potential to be big enough, especially considering how close things were last time we clashed."

"Fair enough," stated Lancer.

Harry took another sip of his wine and leaned back.

"Harry," communicated Archer through their bond, "I don't think working with those two is a good idea."

"We can't beat Berserker on our own. We're going to have to swallow our pride."

"Are there any objections to challenging Berserker and his Master, say, tomorrow at eleven at night," said Kosmas.

"Should we perhaps plan more?" asked Susan, choosing her words carefully.

"I believe that planning to heavily will doom us. Flexibility is important," replied Kosmas.

Susan nodded.

"Well then, I believe that concludes this meal and war session. Ladies and gentlemen, after you."

xxx

Assassin jumped forth with a lightning fast slash of his sickle, aimed at decapitating his Master's aunt. The mad monk's fist sent him through a wall. A cloud of shattered building materials could be seen coming from the hole.

"Now, now. That's no way to treat your aunt," said the huntress, all humanity having turned into bestial things.

"I don't want to be a part of this," said Draco, his trembling voice and limbs betraying his fear. She capitalized on this, coming near and brushing aside his extended wand. She came unsettlingly close to him, practically and drinking in his fear.

"Why are you like this?" she asked, almost pouting, "This isn't the Draco I know."

Draco swallowed a lump in his throat and gave his firm reply.

"Assassin has changed the way I look at things Aunt Bella. If the first murderer -the man who killed his own brother in cold blood and lied about it- can seek reconciliation and to become a better person, I think that there is something out there, a greater good, to which I can aspire. This whole thing about killing off the mudbloods and setting the world in flames, there is something seriously wrong about that. I might not like, for example, Hermione Granger; but I don't feel any particular desire to rape her and kill her family. There's something sick and wrong about that."

She walked around him, each heeled footstep carefully placed. She examined, looking closer, while he remained as still as a statue. She could kill him in an instant and there was nothing he could do save burning a command seal.

"Aunt Bella, I still love you. You're family, and if learned anything from being raised as a Malfoy, it would be that family matters. Even if you do things I think are horrible, I'll still love you unconditionally because you are family."

Draco inhaled and exhaled, waiting for a possible killing blow. Bella gave him a slow applause and a rare genuine smile.

"I think that you've finally become a man, Draco. Those were probably the best thought-out words I've heard from you. That's really impressive."

She came close to give him a hug and kiss on the cheek. Her gaze turned hard at once.

"However, Draco, I have an ultimatum for you. You can either help me now or I will kill you. It's nothing personal, but this is a Grail War. I hope we can cooperate."

The wand was now pressed against his throat. Assassin appeared from the rubble and gave a look to Draco. Though he could not see behind the mask, Draco felt that such a look from his Servant was one of disappointment. Again, Draco was weak, and he loathed himself for his weakness.

xxx

Twin steels rang out on a dreary, grey morning. One had a was the color of polished bronze and gold while the other was pure silver that reflected light to turn it white. The white blade was easily the superior dancing around the guard of the bronze blade. However, with every strike that could easily turn into a killing blow, the bronze blade became that minuscule bit better.

"Reducto!"

The explosive spell was not aimed at the wielder of the pure sword. Such a thing would have been pointless. However, the fragments of concrete were not governed by any magic resistance. The blade still ended less than an inch from a killing blow.

"Getting better, Harry."

"You're still going easy on me, Archer."

"You'd die if I didn't. We Servants are at a completely different level."

Harry sat down and began to stretch.

"Yeah. I know."

"You seem a bit down? Is something wrong?"

"It's been a bit strange lately. It just feels a bit more natural to do what I did just now and use the sword as my focus, shaping the spell with my intent rather than rote memorization of incantations and movements."

"I'm no wizard, so do whatever works best for you. It might just be that you aren't using the wand that chose you. Nonetheless, you need to get up."

Archer spread her arms wide with a mocking grin. She then uttered three words.

"Come at me."

Harry picked up the sword and they locked once more in a dance of blades. Though outwitted and overpowered at every turn, he became that little bit better. As for Archer, a look of pure bliss was on her face. To duel with her own Master that she had convinced to take up the way of the sword was not what she had expected when summoned as a Servant in the Holy Grail War. And so, the dance continued.

xxx

Thrust. Sweep. Shield bash. Sandals found purchase on the dust of the field. A spin, disrupting vision with a crimson cloak. A brutally short thrust of the butt spike. Lancer kicked up dust as he prepared his mind and body while fighting against the wind and air.

Each thrust was with the intention of killing. Each step contained the power to stop a charging bull. Each shield bash could smash apart a castle wall. Such was the overwhelming power of a Servant.

"Bravo, Lancer. I could not wish for a finer Servant than you."

Kosmas walked up, expensive sunglasses over his eyes.

"Thank you, Master," replied Lancer, dripping sweat.

The shield-bearing warrior gazed towards the sky before looking back at his Master.

"I do fear something about this upcoming conflict," he stated.

"What would that be?" inquired Kosmas.

"I fear that my Noble Phantasm would be required. To be absolutely frank, it would be necessary in single combat as I doubt that he would succumb to his wounds before he would muster the strength necessary to kill me. If you recall, Berserker becomes stronger with every blow which strikes him."

Nikolai Kosmas nodded and withdrew a small cigar from his pocket. He lit it up with a polished silver lighter. A thin stream of smoke was blown into the air.

"I didn't know you were a smoker, Master."

"It's a bad habit of a youth misspent. I usually light up before something big like this. To be honest with myself, I'm concerned about this. We might have three Servants on our side, but Assassin and Caster, the two most devious, are wild cards at the moment."

The two walked over and sat on the ground.

"So Lancer, did you see the kids today?"

"I did. I don't want to let them down as a coach by getting killed. That would break their hearts."

"Yeah. I suppose it would."

Master and Servant lay down in the grass, gazing at the clouds.

xxx

The sickle-shaped magazine of 7.62 ammunition was rocked into the Type-56. She tweaked the reflex sight and practiced quick shots. This was the rifle with which Meiling Huang had drilled. The QBZ felt too strange after using the Type-56. The Czech CZ-52 pistol and Type-63 machine pistol went into holsters. After a moment, she took out the RPG-7. For a normal person, they would have been barely able to move under so much weight. However, with magic, she was easily able to lighten the load to something more bearable.

Rider squatted, palms pressed together. It was how he concentrated and meditated before going into battle. His weapons were laid out before him. Once more, Meiling Huang began to strip and clean her weapons.

"Are you worried, Master?" asked Rider, cracking one eye open.

"I always get nervous and scared before I go into battle. I just use my courage to harness that fear as my own engine."

Rider nodded.

"Rider," she said, "If you can, try to kill Archer or her Master. I just don't like them."

"Understood."

xxx

Saber, in her full battle regalia knelt down, genuflecting. The invisible sword's point was placed against the floor. Her head was bowed. Her lips moved but no sound issued forth.

Saber was praying. As for what she was praying, it could not be known. Perhaps mere worship and praise. Perhaps it was a petition for victory. Perhaps a request for the forgiveness of sins should she fall in battle.

Saber was a knight who held to that code of chivalry. As did most of the knights of her days, it was the custom to pray before battle. Even though her sword promised victory, she prayed. It might have been a mere prayer of thanks. It might have just been empty words, but Saber prayed.

Then, she stood up. Her Master was there by the door, watching. Saber smiled and brought a gauntleted hand onto the shoulder of Susan Bones. Then they left the room together as it was night, the designated time of battle.

xxx

"You ready, Archer?" asked Harry.

Archer, in her full battle gear, nodded.

Harry checked over his things. Again, he had an enchanted coat. He had a few more potions of incendiary fun. He'd made a few more potions which he had already to used to boost his strength, speed, and toughness. He wasn't quite sure how his liver would take the mass ingestion of potions, but it was better to have a bad liver than to be dead.

The sword was at his waist. The wand was already in his hand. Harry swung the invisibility cloak over his shoulders as he walked out the door. Archer, now also invisible, supported him as they began the rooftop journey across the city.

Soon enough, buildings of the city gave way to the less densely populated outskirts. Having looked over the map and having a bird's eye view, the pair were able to quickly locate the pitch. They touched down at the top row of bleachers. Kosmas was waiting, sitting on a bench while smoking a cigarette. Harry wrinkled his nose. He could tolerate it in small quantities, but smoking annoyed him.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," said the man cordially.

They shook hands firmly.

"An excellent cloak you have there," he commented.

"Thank you, Mr. Kosmas. It's something of a family heirloom, a gift from my father."

"I see."

"Greetings," came the rough voice of the bronze-clad warrior.

"Hello, Lancer," said Archer.

The two of them clasped hands.

"I suppose we will be working together tonight, Lancer."

"Indeed, we will. As a knight, I give you my word that I shall not betray for this fight. Do you swear the same?"

Archer paused to think before replying, saying, "I swear that we shall fight as comrades for this coming battle."

"A comrade, you say. For my generation of warriors and heroes, the bonds of comrades -hetairoi, as we would say- were taken quite seriously. I understand the reason for your deliberation, Knight of the Bow, and I appreciate it."

"My generation had a similar concept. We called them nakama, though."

Again, the two clasped hands and drew together this time in the embrace of friendly warriors.

Into the stadium walked another pair. Pale moonlight reflected from pure steel. Saber had arrived with her Master. Greetings were politely exchanged, but the holy knight remained separate from the others. However, the two understood that this was Saber's method of camaraderie. It was found in the silence of mutual respect, just as the voice of Yaweh was revealed to the prophet Elijah not in cacophonous clamor. Instead, it was revealed in the silence as a small voice. The other Servants nodded, understanding.

Galloping across the sky like Odin upon Sleipnir, Rider descended down to the pitch. His Master was upon the saddle, armed to the teeth with a variety of the twentieth century's deadliest weapons. They were cold and quiet, not wanting to associate with the other Masters and Servants. She calmly and mechanically checked her equipment.

"Mr. Potter, how do you intend to bring Berserker to us?"

"Trust me, I have a plan," replied Harry.

Harry pulled out his wand. Bellatrix would recognize the sign and, like the bloodhound she was, follow him. However, she would go into a trap. He searched within himself and found that core of Harry Potter. He could feel the wand drawing from this much like a watermill drawing from the power of a river. Time seemed to freeze as he summoned up to the forefront of him mind a certain beautiful memory.

Archer's summoning.

At death's door that fated night, a connection across dimensions to bring about a crimson-clad savior.

The knight in red stood against the forces out for his blood without hesitation.

Whether god or devil, she would always be his savior in his hour of need.

"Expecto Patronum!"

The stag exploded from his wand. This stag was more full and real than any other he had ever created before. It was a royal stag, fit for a king with a crown of antlers. It bowed before its creator, the one that brought about its genesis.

"Seek Bellatrix Lestrange and let her know that Harry Potter has challenged her."

The stag lowered its head further before flying off into the sky. The phantasm hurtled through the air like a shooting star. The white star returned after some time, all eyes upon it, alongside a coiling serpent of darkness attempting to overtake it. The nobility of the stag was in no way diminished by its chaser.

The stag impacted upon the field, dispersing into a white mist. The darkness exploded outward, revealing three. One, a familiar huntress, was Bellatrix herself. Another, crucifix reflecting bright against the light absorbing robes, was Berserker. A third, face steeled, was Draco Malfoy. However, Assassin was nowhere to be seen.

"What the hell, Malfoy? I thought you said that you changed!" yelled Susan in anger, echoing Harry's thoughts near-verbatim.

Four Servants stood against one.

Bellatrix held out her hand, presenting her Command Spells. As she spoke, it glowed red with power.

"Kill them Berserker."

With a might roar as powerful as a lion's, Berserker rushed forward. The bronze Lancer appeared in front of him. The fist as with as much force as a runaway train slammed against the hoplon. The shield rang like a church bell. With a roar of his own, Lancer pushed back the mad monk. Saber was calm and cold as she charged forth, resplendent in her beauty. The shredding winds ripped into the monk's robe, it did not kill. What did not kill him only made him stronger. Archer ran forward, sword still sheathed, with her hand by the guard of the sword. As she drew close enough to strike, she drew the sword and slashed in one motion. Berserker caught the blade in his teeth and punched, striking a blow to her chest. Were it not for her armor, she would have been gravely injured by the force. Rider spurred his horse, causing it to rear up. He drew his curved sword. The horse, without any equal in this modern era, galloped at speed to make a jet proud. If it could, the wind would have cried at such swiftness. Berserker dodged the hacking punch and brought his leg up to kick the horse. He sent it skidding and sliding along the field, obviously injuring it.

Moonlight reflected from spinning stone. The pure blade moved to intercept. Dextrous Archer spun the sickle around the blade of her sword like something from a game of horseshoes. A robed hand snatched up his weapon and moved to strike her upon the neck.

Assassin, expression unreadable behind the mask.

Archer, grin fierce as she drew the paired guns.

"I've been waiting, Assassin. You up for Round 2?"

"Sorry, Archer. I'm not in the mood for banter. I would simply like you dead and be done with it."

"Sorry you got stuck with a shitty plan, Assassin. Attacking another Servant when the Masters are right in front of you. That can't be fun."

Assassin's only response was to bend back at the waist to dodge a pair of bullets. He then flipped around the pair aimed at his legs. Archer advanced, pressing the Biblical murderer backwards. With every shot, the Servant was forced to give ground. Against any other Servant, it might have been an effective tactic. However, he fought against Archer, the undisputed master of long-range fighting in this war.

Assassin's eyes widened, as Archer could see from the holes of his mask. She looked back and felt the warm breath of a horse. Rider smiled cruelly, bow at the ready. He shot a hornet-like swarm of arrows, and Assassin was forced to dodge.

"Do not look so surprised Archer. Though I fight for the pleasure of war, I have some measure of respect for strong warriors. And you, Knight of the Bow, are quite strong."

Archer nodded.

"Gotcha', you piece of shit," muttered Meiling in her native Cantonese. The RPG was on her shoulder, high explosive round locked and loaded. The night scope held Bellatrix in its sights. With a click and a _whoosh, _the rocket was launched. Being a cheap, mass-produced weapon, it was not terribly accurate. However, accuracy was not of the utmost concern when using a rocket launcher due to the invention of the high-explosive warhead. This device, with which most wizards were unfamiliar, allowed the neutralization of soft target without a direct it. For this reason, Meiling loved it. Cocky wizards were unaware of the threat of the rocket. And Bellatrix Lestrange struck her as the cocky type.

Draco ran for cover upon seeing the rocket launch. Bellatrix just stood there, caught in her own world. With an offhand gesture of her wand a wall of earth rose up. However, mere dirt was no match for a high-explosive warhead. Bellatrix was showered in stone and shrapnel, not enough to kill but more than enough to disfigure her face and make her bleed. With a cry of rage, she prepared to cast another spell, but a burst of bullets quickly put an end to any offensive thoughts. Bellatrix attempted to break open the shooter's mind, but it was too hard and too focused. She might as well have been firing a handgun at a battleship, so strong were the mental defenses.

Brutal fists clashed against bronze. For every blow, a spear thrust was the answer. Ever unpredictable, the mad Berserker dodged the fatal blows and let each scratch fuel his rage, a rage merciless as the taiga's winter. In tandem with Lancer was Saber. The hurricane of her invisible blade tore at Berserker, but the results were the same. With every scratch, his endless rage strengthened him. Though his legend was nowhere near as famous as those of either Lancer or Saber, Mad Enhancement allowed the twentieth century Servant to measure up to otherwise superior foes. With his Noble Phantasm, his strength and ferocity grew with every strike. Therefore, it could be said that he was a perfect Berserker, a weak Servant who used a Noble Phantasm that did not require a sound mind to function and his class's Mad Enhancement to become on par with the most powerful of Servants.

Saber struck another blow against Berserker, but the reckless Servant closed the distance. His shoulder was shredded; however, he pushed forward to grab Saber's wrist. The lance speared into his side, but that only fueled his might. He swung the silver-armored servant into the bronze Lancer. There was no finesse to his attack, just audacity and fury.

The two Servants were sent flying away. Quickly, they were again on their feet.

"I fear that it has come to this," remarked Lancer after spitting out some blood, "I wish that I didn't have to do this around all the other Servants."

"You are about to unleash you Noble Phantasm, aren't you?" asked Saber, calm in spite of the recent clash.

"Indeed. Perhaps you know my legend, Knight of the Sword."

The hoplite slammed his spear against the hoplon. Berserker charged.

"Come to me, brave warriors with whom I fought and died. Come, Amuntores Anaktos," Lancer paused, "The Brave 300!"

Then, a ring of fire swept outward, finding all present on the battlefield. These were the flames of war. They found themselves in a narrow pass. On one end was Berserker and his allies. At the other end were Lancer's allies. However, in the middle, was Lancer. Around him were a number of scarlet-cloaked soldiers of bronze.

A struggle against overwhelming odds.

A legend of defiance.

A brave sacrifice.

The phalanx was thirty broad and ten deep. There was no doubt that each of these hoplites, the Royal Guard of Lancer, were all Heroic Spirits. When they were called to this grim field of battle, these gates of heat, they would also come to die alongside their king. The ritual oils used to anoint the dead could easily be smelt. This fragrance was mixed with blood, sweat, and death.

There was no doubt now as to the identity of Lancer. He was none other than King Leonidas of Sparta. Though the King's last stand was fought with a number of free Greeks, only the legend of the Brave 300 grew.

"Sons of Sparta," yelled the King, "I have called upon you from beyond the grave to fight once more as comrades. We fight not only for our honor, but we fight for a wish. We fight for a chance to rewrite legend. Do you see your comrades from common Sparta or even the brave men of Thespis who fought alongside us 'til the very end?"

"No, Lord," cried the Spartans.

"It is for those brave men we fight today, Sons of Sparta. With the wish granted by Holy Grail, we shall ensure that those men who fought alongside to the very end will be recalled in posterity so that we all might gather on this field once more."

"Such a grave injustice."

"Why do they forget Hellenic comradeship?"

"Spartans!" yelled Leonidas, "Our first obstacle is that man. He is called Berserker, but his true name is Rasputin. He is a priest gone mad. With every blow we strike, he will grow stronger. However, is he so strong as to resist the might of the Spartan phalanx?"

"No, my King!" cried the Spartans.

"Follow me to victory!"

It was at that moment that Berserker charged. Spittle flew from his mouth. The Spartans pressed forward, beginning as a march that soon turned into a charge. The Spartans were silent as they slammed into Berserker. Sandals dug into the rough dirt, each comrade supporting each other so that none would fall. Lances plunged their way into Berserker, but his rage at such injuries grew stronger. With a roar, he snapped the shafts. After rising up, Berserker seized one and smashed him upon the ground like a puppy. Another Spartan moved forward to take the place of the one mangled by the might of Berserker.

From the front of the battle line came the shout of Lancer.

"Knight of the Sword, I do not feel that I will be able to kill this monster. I will merely delay and injure him here. It is up to you to finish the job."

Saber nodded and spoke softly, "I shall slay him."

"Good!" replied Lancer, having heard her over the clash of battle, "Onward, Sons of Sparta!"

And then, the Masters and Servants, with the exception of Berserker and Bellatrix were taken from Lancer's Reality Marble.

"This has gone too far, Draco. Please allow for our departure as we do not wish to fight you any longer," spoke Assassin.

"Lancer is indeed a might warrior," spoke Archer respectfully, "I only wish that I could command such a legend as him."

Harry walked up to Archer and asked, "But you would still fight him if it came to that, right?

Archer replied, "Of course, I would. I couldn't possibly resist a challenge like that."

Saber stood, sword of winds held out in front of her. The winds of her invisible sword began to rotate. And then, Lancer appeared, kneeling. He was battered. He spat out a tooth.

"The bastard is all your, Saber."

Berserker was there. He was covered in scores of wounds, but a powerful, icy rage consumed him. Eyes filled with hate bored into the two Servants.

Harry could only watch as dust was blown away. The air around Saber was perfectly clear. From her invisible sword came a storm, but it was not just any storm. This storm was a hurricane. Something was inside the winds, cloaked and hidden by them. It was then that Harry realized his mistake with regards to Saber. That was no invisible sword. The winds were merely concealing a holy sword of such great fame that it would be recognized in an instant.

"Saber?" asked Susan quietly to none but herself.

Berserker roared and charged, crucifix bouncing upon his chest. The golden light was reflected from it.

In one final spiral, the winds shed themselves from Saber's sword. It was gold and intensely beautiful. Such was to be expected of the strongest holy sword. The only other weapon that could hold a candle to it in beauty was Heaven, Archer's katana.

Berserker drew closer, fist wound back for a punch that, were it to connect, would easily kill Saber in a blow.

Saber held the sword above her head in preparation for a swing.

"Ex-"

The sword turned into a manifestation of cleansing holiness. With it, victory was all but promised. Berserker punched. Saber brought down the sword.

"-Calibur!"

The wave of power, for there was no other way to describe the form of the cleansing holy light, went outward. It was so bright and beautiful that even the other Servants averted their eyes.

The wave of power went outward, but it was pointed toward the city of London.

"Oh goddamnit, Saber."

Caster was there in the air, preparing a spell to halt the destruction. A rippling curtain like the aurora borealis appeared in the air. It met the light of Excalibur. The purpose of this barrier was not to halt the Noble Phantasm. Against an attack that would crack open fortresses, even ones protected by the most powerful of enchantments, trying to stop it with direct force was futile. But such was not the purpose of the barrier. Its purpose was to speak with the Noble Phantasm, to appeal to its sense of honor, so that the innocents would not be slain.

The pure light met the rainbow's colors.

Sweat dripped from Caster's face. So intense was his determination that he wept tears of blood as he pleaded with Excalibur. But the Sword of Promised Victory listened and dispersed. Exhausted, the grey-cloaked Servant left as a savior without thanks.

In spite of it all, Berserker remained. He was intensely wounded and about to die, but he still drew breath. And he wept.

What had driven him to such depravity?

Why had he forsaken God?

Why must he be remembered for his evils?

He wept bitter tears. He not only recalled his life, but he recalled the horrors that Bellatrix had called upon him to commit.

He knelt down in front of Saber, hands clasped together.

He croaked with a voice capable of reason, "I'm about to die. Saber, King of Knights, would you please pray for my soul."

Saber knelt down, hands resting upon the pommel of her sword.

"Yes," she answered.

And so, Rasputin began with Saber following, to pray the Hail Mary.

"Chaire, kechairetomene, ho kurios meta su.

Eulongemene sou en gunaixi

kai eulongemenos ho karpos tes koilias sou Iesus.

Hagia Maria, meter theou,

proseuche huper hemon ton hamartalon,

nun kai en te hora tou thanatou humon.

Amen."

"Thank you, Saber," said Rasputin as he faded away, smiling.

As the wind blew what remained of the Servant away, Saber replied, "You're welcome."

"No," screeched Bellatrix, "You piece-of-shit Servant. Don't die like that."

Then, out of nowhere, a spinning crescent took off her head. Assassin materialized. He took his sickle and wiped it upon her corpse before spitting on it.

"This is for all the suffering and misery you caused," said Assassin, voice hard.

And so, they waited, five of the seven that had turned to six. The men under MacTavish removed the corpse and sealed off the area. Once they arrived, the Servants and their Masters were gone.


	12. Live Bait

I'm back. As a sort of side note, I have a wizard use the term "oriental" to refer to an Asian person because the wizards seem to be a few decades behind a number of trends in the muggle world. It isn't intended to represent my views on the subject nor is it intended to be discriminatory. I'd like to mention this, so nobody feels a need to point it out in a review.

* * *

**Chapter 12**

**Live Bait**

Harry and Archer stood in the small courtyard, standing apart. The falling moon partially illuminated the two. A soft breeze rustled their clothes. Harry made a move as if to step toward Archer, but he pulled back abruptly.

"What now, Archer?"

"Berserker is dead. That means that we have five more to go. Damn."

Harry walked closer to his Servant, within an arm's length.

"We've got this; I trust you."

"Saber, Lancer, and even Caster are stronger than me! The only ones that I could beat right now are Assassin and Rider."

"Archer..."

Harry wanted to say more, but he could not find the words. He wanted to approach, but he could feel the fires smoldering around her.

"Good night, Archer. I'm going to make something special for breakfast to celebrate our victory."

At that moment, he turned away to go inside. Harry gave one last look at Archer before he walked away. Archer could hear his footsteps recede. She growled as she punched the ground, slamming her fist again and again. The concrete cracked.

"...Doesn't deserve someone so weak," muttered Archer. She put a round into the concrete for good measure. A slight wind dispersed the smoke, leaving Archer exhausted and forlorn.

xxx

Meiling tapped the side of the massive Ford van as she drove through the slow-speed streets of the suburbs. The heavy wheels rolled over any obstacles in their way. Rider sat back in mortal clothing as he played with the radio. For all of the faults of the decade-old van, the radio worked well. Rider had set it to a dance music station. It was then that she noticed something new about the van; the speakers did not handle bass well.

"Rider, would you please stop. It feels like the van is going to rattle itself apart."

He gave her a smirking glance.

"Would you at least turn it down?"

The Servant smiled kindly and turned down the volume. As they began to enter an intersection, having stopped at the sign, a car screamed past. Meiling slammed on the brakes. Then she honked the horn at the rapidly receding car. She could have sworn that she recognized the driver. He wore a neat suit, but his features were obscured. She could feel a mocking laughter from the dust.

"Caster," growled Rider.

"He's dangerous. He could probably wipe out everyone but Saber if he really wanted to do so. I hope we could manipulate his grudge into offing Potter. Not sure how, though. If that happens, we are the undisputed masters of ranged combat."

"I'd like to catch him and pour molten silver down his throat."

"Caster, Potter, or Archer?"

"In that case, all of the above."

Meiling chuckled.

"He seems like a pretty good kid. I wouldn't mind someone like him on my team."

"Alliances typically preclude the plan we are about to enact; this sort of thing usually antagonizes, Master."

She snorted.

"If things were different. Right now, I'm just interested in crushing him."

"You say that, but I don't think you mean it. You like his sense of justice. If you want him that badly, I can simply kill Archer. I'd leave breaking him to you."

"That's not a just way of doing things. The only way that he would follow me would be if he were to join me willingly. With Archer, bitch that she is, I don't see that happening."

"She is a worthy foe. I might not like her, but she's the only one with whom I feel a kinship."

"So, Rider," asked Meiling, "Are you having any doubts?"

"No, I'd rather fight against those two than fight with them. More importantly, do you have any doubts?"

"A few. As I said, Potter is the sort of person that I would want backing me up. I'll engage him and wreck him, and you'll engage Archer and kill her."

"What do you mean by 'wreck?'" asked Rider, genuinely curious.

"I don't want to kill him at this point, anyway. Maybe chain him up for a few weeks until the war is over. After that, he'll get a choice. If he wants, he can follow me and grow more powerful than he ever could at Hogwarts. On the other hand, he can return to normalcy. Obviously, I'd like an apprentice; however, I'm not so deep into black-ops that I'm going force someone to do something when it isn't necessary."

Rider gave her a half-smiling, half-frowning look before he spoke.

"Master, you're really something of a romantic."

She shrugged and smiled.

"You can't go into a Grail War unless you're some sort of bleeding-heart with an wish that's worth murdering a few people to fulfill."

Rider laughed uproariously, slamming his fist against the dashboard.

"I love that dichotomy. Your heart is both so bloodstained and so pure. I don't think I could settle for another Master."

"Thanks, Rider."

The drive continued in a pleasant manner. It was a very nice day.

"Master, do you remember Normandy?"

"I do..."

xxx

Normandy, France: January 1996

The tender snow fell lightly, each flake beautiful and delicate. Such beauty was sullied as the flakes landed and mixed with the dirt. The beauty was sullied further as ashes fell onto the white that had built up over the dirty slush at the bottom. Meiling Huang looked at the rows upon rows of crosses, occasionally interspersed with a star of David.

"What do you think, Rider?" she asked the massive figure whom she had given a greatcoat.

"It's truly something."

"This is how wars are fought now. It isn't so much the mighty warrior as it is games of go played out with millions of men as the stones."

"It's not something that I hate. In fact, I think I would enjoy this sort of battle. Now, the power at the disposal of a great general is far greater than in my day. Now, a general can conduct campaigns with a speed I could have only dreamed of. When I think of the men who first hit the beaches and died in seconds, I smile. The swiftness and random nature of the deaths make the heroism of those who rose above even braver."

His Master smiled as she exhaled another breath of smoke into the cold night air.

"Sorry to interrupt, but you're in my way," came a saccharine voice.

Meiling took another drag on her cigarette as she turned to face the newcomer. She was a young girl, perhaps seventeen. She wore a dark, double-breasted coat with an elegant fur hat. The Master of Rider raised an eyebrow as she unbuttoned her jacket to flash the Type-80 machine pistol. Slowly, she drew it from its shoulder holster

"You can always go around. We aren't blocking the way. In fact, we'll even move out of the way."

"No, I do believe that you are in our way," said another with a deep voice.

A cloaked figure materialized from the shadows. He carried his wand in a mirror of Meiling's stance with the pistol, mocking her.

"Servant Caster, I presume," boomed her Servant as he cast aside the modern coat for his elaborate robes and fur-adorned armor. The powerful compound bow appeared in his hands.

"Rider, what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance."

"The feelings are not mutual. Do you want to die that badly?"

"Die? I've got something to do here before I'm defeated. I won't die on this foreign shore."

"I'm afraid that I forgot to introduce myself," said the girl as she drew close to Meiling, extending her hand, "I'm Elise von Schaefer."

"Scion of the von Schaefer? I'll bet you're out on a hunt for the last of the Potters. I'm Meiling Huang, sorry about how nondescript it is."

The two shook hands.

"How did you know about Potter?"

"It's relatively common knowledge that the von Schaefer family isn't happy about how those who would become the Potters split, taking away a fair amount of wealth and knowledge. I doubt that he knows it, since his family is dead."

"I see. You're an interesting woman. What do you think about the upcoming reunification of Hong Kong with the mainland?"

Meiling shrugged.

"I'm just curious whether they're going to get that airport built in time. It was nice to meet you."

"You know the drill, Caster," ordered Elise.

The grey-clad Servant lunged forward, pointing his wand like a fencer points an epee. The ground around Rider exploded, but the horseman jumped over the globe of destruction on top of his horse. He pulled back on his bow and released the arrow in midair. It cleaved through the wind faster than sound. However, Caster had already teleported away with a crack.

"Bastard," growled Rider, "Laying waste to such a memorial."

"The past is best left in its natural state, dust," quipped Caster, hurling another bolt at Rider. The mounted archer shrewdly took a shot which cleaved the bolt in two.

"Are we not both dust and to dust shall we not return?" answered Rider.

"Who said that Heroic Spirit must only be the ashes of some king or warlord?"

Rider hit ground and slid to the side of his fierce mount, dodging another bolt. However, the mounted warrior had fallen into Caster's trap. At his feet, a red pentagram formed, which spread to cover much of the memorial. Rotten hands in the rags of uniforms clawed from the earth, which hastened to disgorge them. They carried rusted and battered rifles, chipped bayonets, and malevolent points of purple light where their eyes would be.

Caster stood at the front of the ranks of his undead army. The souls torn from their resting places cocked their weapons.

"Those uniforms shouldn't be intact," yelled Meiling.

"I know," he said nonchalantly, "I merely stuffed their souls into containers that I thought to be appropriate for this ground."

Snarling, Meiling took aim and fired a burst of rounds at the Schaefer girl. Caster was already there as he took the shots without harm. In his hand, was a lead rose, which he then handed to his Master. She turned her aim from the enemy Master to empty her magazine into the horde with no effect. Meiling withdrew from a holster inside her pants a gleaming Smith and Wesson Model 36 revolver.

"I never thought I'd get to bring this out."

She took aim at the first undead soldier. As the bullet struck him, he turned to dust. As the bullet struck the one behind the first, he too turned to dust. Rider was already hurling a storm of arrows into the throng.

"Master, give the command."

She smiled despite the bullets and arrows flying around her and pointed at the Servant and Master.

Elise von Schaefer then said two words, "Feur Frei."

At the command to "fire freely," they opened with a murderous fusillade of bullets. The bullets bore with them the same hatred of the gunmen. Meiling dropped and focused on her command seals.

"Rider, get us out of here!" she ordered with a burning palm.

At once, Rider was by her side. He threw her onto the horse and jumped high into the sky, far from the hornet's nest below.

xxx

"Caster is on my shit list," admitted Meiling.

"For me, that list is more along the lines of my killing, maiming, and burning than excrement."

She gave him a sideways glance.

"We're just about there, Rider."

"Does the plan really require you to say that, Master?"

"It isn't, strictly speaking, necessary; however, I've always wanted to say that."

The van drove into a quiet suburb before stopping at one particular house, No.4 Privet Drive. Meiling opened the door and smoothed out the wrinkled from her green officer's uniform. As she walked outside, she put on the peaked garrison cover decorated with red and gold. She took a pair of white gloves stuffed in her belt to put those on.

"How official do I look?" she asked.

"Very."

She adjusted the leather holster for her favorite gun, her old Type 80, as she marched with precise steps to the door. She knocked and waited. The door was answered within a few minutes by a large, middle-aged man.

"Are you Mr. Vernon Dursley?" she asked.

"I am," he answered with a measured response, "Who might you be?"

"My name is Meiling Huang and I represent the People's Liberation Army Special Circumstances unit of the People's Republic of China," she replied, crisply handing over a business card.

"I'm afraid that I can't read this," he said.

"The English is on the reverse face. My apologies, Mr. Dursley."

Cautiously, he looked from the card to her before handing it back.

"Can you provide any other ID?" he asked cautiously, glancing at the leather holster.

"Of course, sir," she said, pulling a badge from her left breast pocket.

He examined the badge and said, "Thank you. What do you want? By the way, your English is quite good."

"Thank you. I often deal with international events. May I come in? This requires a great deal of explanation."

"Yes, you may. Would you mind leaving the, uh, pistol off to the side?"

She smiled curtly and replied, "Of course, sir. I suppose that having a secret-police sort of person come knocking at your doorstep with a sidearm is rather disconcerting. I'm not here for that sort of thing."

"Petunia!" he called, "We have a guest, could you make her some tea."

"Coming!" came the reply from the back of the house.

Meiling entered, removing the cover. She looked around for somewhere to place her pistol. Eventually, she decided to hang it on a hat rack along with her cover. Smoothing out her skirt, she sat down onto the pleasantly soft couch. His wife, one Mrs. Petunia Dursley came out to meet her. Mrs. Dursley was thin as a rail, almost emaciated, but she moved with a certain amount of nervous energy.

"Who might you be?" she asked with a voice both polite and nervous.

"I am Lieutenant Meiling Huang of the People's Liberation Army Special Circumstances. In short, I'm here to discuss the role of your adopted son, Harry Potter, in the conflict against the supernatural terrorist Voldemort and his Death Eater organization."

"Oh my," replied the middle-aged woman.

"I'd rather not rush that discussion. Time is not an issue, but I don't plan on overstaying my welcome. I do have a hotel, so I'm not rushed to conclude this business today."

She smiled pleasantly, as his wife moved away to make a few cups of tea. For his part, Vernon sat down comfortably in an armchair across from Meiling.

"What do you think about the Hong Kong business?" he asked, trying to prevent any ice from forming.

"It's funny that you should mention that. People have been asking me that a lot whenever I mention that I'm a national of mainland China. In fact, a German asked me something similar when I was in Normandy briefly."

"I'm sorry if you get that a lot."

"I'm not offended. I'm happy about the reunification in a vague, nationalistic sense. What really interests me, as I said to the German girl, is the construction of the Hong Kong International Airport to replace the old Kai Tak Airport."

Vernon leaned back and nodded.

"I had to make a trip to Hong Kong in 1989 in a jumbo jet. That was probably the scariest landing I've ever made. The landing gear were floating a few yards from the roofs of residential buildings and power lines."

"I've had that fun experience as well. For me, I was more frightened when the flight had to bank around a mountain on the approach."

The two laughed.

"Funnily enough," said Vernon, "This is probably the first time that I've talked with someone from mainland China. I probably met a few on that business trip, but nothing like this. You seem like a remarkably decent lady"

"Thank you very much."

"Here come the tea," said Petunia as she entered. She poured a cup for the guest first. Meiling graciously accepted it, but declined milk and sugar. The three sat back down.

"Would you mind calling your sons since this concerns them?"

"Harry is out right now, but I can get Dudley."

"Thank you, I understand."

"Dudley!" she yelled, "We have a guest that wants to meet you."

There was a loud stomping as he came down the stairs. Once he came into sight, Meiling realized that it wasn't stomping; Dudley was just that large. It was hard to avoid any outward disgust or mirth as he ogled her with shoddy subtlety.

"Meiling Huang, a pleasure to meet you," she said in a businesslike fashion, extending her hand. He shook it.

"Now that we're all here, I believe it's time to get down to business."

She examined the family that was about to become her victims. She finally had her chance to say it.

"Mr. Dursley, does this rag smell like chloroform to you?"

With that, she snatched a chloroform-soaked rag from her jacket's pocket to shove in his face. He was out in seconds. His wife began to scream. The shock gave her a few seconds to cast a silencing spell. Dudley was moving in to crush her. Even if she had years of training, she was still barely over five feet in height and was barely over one-hundred twenty pounds in weight. Facing her, Dudley was nearly six feet tall and at least two-hundred twenty pounds. However, Meiling conjured to mind a phrase which she had heard in America that seemed particularly fitting: "God made all men, but Samuel Colt made them equal."

Meiling drew from a holster concealed within her skirt's waistband her snub-nosed Smith and Wesson. At this range, she didn't need to aim. She just needed to point and shoot. He could see her wild grin and knew that he might be in over his head. Meiling fanned the revolver, emptying five rounds of rubber bullets into him in less than three seconds. The pattern was wide, but all the shots connected. One in the shoulder, two in the gut, one in the solar plexus, and one in the ribs. The pain slowed him down enough for a high kick to drop him, breaking his nose with a gruesome snap. It was a mere formality to put Petunia into a blood choke.

"Rider, come here and secure them."

The Servant came into the room and began to cuff them as she retrieved her cover, pistol, and other evidence at the scene. By that time, Rider had already bound them with handcuffs.

As she walked out, a cloaked figure revealed herself, pointing a wand at the Chinese Master. Meiling's eyes hardened as she stopped and lifted up her hands.

"Stop right there! Keep you hands where I can see them!" yelled the cloaked woman.

"An undercover auror? If you'll excuse me, I'm going home."

"You're under arrest?"

"Do you want to start an incident with the Chinese Army? That's what will happen if this continues," bluffed Meiling, knowing that this wasn't authorized, even if her superiors wouldn't be unduly bothered.

"Stupefy!" cast the woman, hurling the red bolt at her uniformed opposite.

Meiling brought her hand down into a hammer strike. Instead of striking and disabling her, the spell dissipated as if it had hit a wall. In a smooth motion, Meiling drew her Type 80, checked her sight picture, and put a round into the woman. The crack of the bullet felt far too loud, but the satisfying smack of lead on flesh made up for it. Meiling was even happier that she had decided to load her gun with hollow points this morning. The witch disappeared with a crack.

"Move it Rider!" barked Meiling.

"Already done," said the Servant, materializing behind her, "The cargo is loaded."

She nodded in assent and hopped in the car as people emerged onto porches. It didn't matter at this point. She had already cast a charm on the car to fudge its identification. Laughing, she drove away from the scene.

"I have one thing to ask, Master," said Rider, settling into his seat.

"Name it."

"How did you get past that blood protection surrounding the house? I had to use brute force to claw my way in."

"Simple, though it was a bit of a gamble. Some research led me to conclude that there was a blood ward which prevented those with hostile intent toward Harry Potter from entering."

"So that talk earlier was to put yourself into a mindset without hostile intent to Potter."

"No, that was genuine. I feel a little bad about the cold shoulder I gave him. I gambled that the wards would let me past since I didn't intend to kill him or hand him over to be killed."

"You're softer than I thought, Master."

"You called me a romantic earlier, didn't you?"

"My respect is undiminished, but I just find this facet of yours to be quite amusing."

She playfully slapped his arm.

"Through thick and thin, I wouldn't want any other Servant."

Rider smiled.

xxx

With a loud crack, Tonks apparated near Hogwarts. Her face was pale. Blood dripped with every step. That woman had attacked her with one of the muggle firearms, and the projectile came too quickly for her to react.

Stumbling, she walked to great doors. With feeble arms, she knocked with the ornamental knocker. She hoped that someone heard. Her head felt lighter and lighter and the last thing she saw before she could see no more was Dumbledore's beard as he opened the door.

Tonks awoke to find herself alive and in the hospital wing of her alma mater. It was now late at night. Her stomach hurt a great deal, but she smiled in spite of the pain. She had survived.

"How are you feeling?"

It was Dumbledore's deep voice, gravely serious.

"I've been hurt pretty badly, but that was probably the worst."

"It was a very nasty wound. You were shot with a bullet three-tenths of an inch in diameter. It hit you and its hollow point caused it to mushroom to about one-half of an inch while bits and pieces broke away to perforate other parts of your body."

"That's nasty. Is that the latest that muggles can do?"

"No, the bullet design is probably fifty-years old. It can still make you just as dead."

Tonks groaned and propped herself up.

"Don't strain yourself too much. I had to help Poppy with the knowledge of firearms, a produce of a wilder youth than you would associate with me."

"A woman, an oriental, kidnapped the Dursleys."

Dumbledore frowned.

"I'll take care of it, Tonks. Right now, just worry about getting some rest and healing."


	13. Gambits

To all returning readers, I'd like to thank your for your patience. I'm aware that this chapter is on the smaller side; however, I wanted to put something out and this section ended at a natural stopping point. I may write the remainder as its own chapter or I may add it on to this. It's really a matter of what feels best. My apologies for the wait. Things should be a bit more regular from now on.

* * *

**Chapter 13**

**Gambits**

With a heavy yawn, Harry woke up and started to get ready for the day. With the fatigue catching up, it was going to be a combination of coffee and sleep through the day. Even then, sleep was a pleasure that he could barely afford. He could be improving his slowly expanding fortress. Harry found Archer sprawled out over the couch. He didn't know whether she was actually sleeping or just faking it. He didn't really want to know either.

Like an automaton, he moved through the motions of making breakfast for the two of them. He even made miso soup with eggplants and mushrooms, thinking that a little comfort food might help Archer. At that moment, Archer wandered into the kitchen. She scrunched her eyes closed and put her hand to her face.

"Are you alright, Archer?"

"I've been better, honestly."

At this, Harry's glance slipped down to the floor, but he smiled warmly when his eyes returned to Archer.

"It's nothing a good breakfast can't fix. I even attempted some miso for you."

Archer smiled and ran her hand through her hair, brushing a stray strand from her face.

"And how can I refuse that."

At the table, she dug into his combination of English and Japanese food with gusto.

"Archer."

"Yes?" she said, pausing after a bite.

"We'll win this. I wouldn't have any other Servant. There's got to be some sort of connection for you to be the Spirit that I summoned."

Harry then swept his arm around the room, highlighting the material.

"It sure wasn't there; it was something in here," he said, pointing at his heart.

Archer couldn't help but smile. She'd seen her fair share of romantics and dreamers, but few were as earnest as this one or as firm as this one. Most bent like reeds in the wind, but she kept these thoughts from her Master – both the good and the bad. Instead, she smiled and laughed. The lingering doubt was still there.

"Alright, Harry. What's our plan of attack?"

"Ideally, go after Malfoy and Assassin. Let Saber and Lancer destroy each other. How do you feel about Rider?"

Archer paused.

"The Mongols are fearsome warriors, but that man came from an age of warriors and bows, not of soldiers and gunpowder. While better weapons might not be decisive in a battle of legends, perhaps the kamikaze will favor me and my labor."

"Could you or could you not?" asked Harry.

"I don't know enough about him, but I want my swords to bathe in Mongol blood."

"There we go. Rider or Assassin?"

"Rider. If we beat Rider, we're more than strong enough for Assassin."

Harry leaned back and put his hands behind his head.

"One final question, Archer."

"Fire away, Master."

"Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee. I'm feeling adventurous."

Harry went off to pour a cup for Archer. Archer sat back and opened up one of his textbooks. As he brought back two cups, one for him and one for Archer, the phone rang. It made that same annoying noise.

"I'll get it," he said, "Hello, who is this?"

"Father Hill speaking, Mr. Potter. I have received a message which Miss Meiling wanted me to relay to you. She is holding the Dursley family of one Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley hostage. If you want them back, she will be available at noon in Trafalgar Square wearing a red beret. If you bring a Servant, hers will also be there. If you do not show up, she will kill one family member every day until you do and will provide photographic evidence to be conveyed to you. And on that unpleasant note, do have a nice day. All the power in the world is much closer to you than it is for even the most powerful of wizards. Just a little food for thought. Goodbye."

Hill hung up the phone on the other end.

"Shit. Shit. Shit," growled Harry.

"Y'know," said Archer, "The best course is just to let them die. What are three lives when you have a one-in-six chance of ultimate power? If you want to go full hero, then I guess that fight with Rider will be sooner than we thought."

Harry calmed and said, "Sometimes, we need a hero. Let's do this."

"What the hell, let's," agreed Archer.

xxx

"It feels like a furnace out here," remarked Archer as she and Harry made their way into Trafalgar Square. It was a quarter to noon, since there was no sense in cutting it close with stakes like these.

"I'm more interested in looking for her," said Harry with a scowl.

Then he saw a red beret, and started after it. Archer rolled her eyes and went along, but her shoulders were nonetheless tense. Harry pushed through the crowd as subtly as he could to move directly to the elusive beret. Once he cleared through a crowd, he found himself face to face with Meiling, dressed rather heavily for such a hot day, and Rider, who looked distinctly uncomfortable in his shooting jacket and pleated trousers.

"Alright, what do you want?" asked Harry, nearly growling.

Archer sat back and coolly regarded her counterpart. Then she extended her hand to him. Rider slowly smiled a fierce smile and shook her hand.

"Let's not let tempers flare," said Meiling with a pleasant smile, "I'm glad you could arrive a bit early. How about lunch? I'll pay, and it can be a restaurant of your choice."

xxx

"I'll have you know," said Meiling, "That this wasn't my idea of a pleasant lunch. Fast food at a mall is not how you treat a lady."

"If it makes you feel any better," said Archer, "He treats me to better food from his own cooking."

"I like it," admitted Rider sheepishly.

"It's a bit of a girl thing," explained Meiling, "We like it when a guy takes us out someplace nice."

Harry shrugged and sipped from his soda.

"Can we get down to business now?" he asked.

"Sure. Just watch your language," answered Meiling, "in more ways than one."

"What do I need to do to get them back. I assume that you're not just going to hand them back now that I'm here."

"Well," said Meiling cheerfully, "I'm actually giving you a choice. First, you give up your claim, which involves transferring ownership to me, and you get them back. I'll even sweeten the deal by letting you live, and you can work with me to win."

"I'm listening," said Harry, "It seems like you put a lot of thought into this option to make it attractive."

"Oh I did, but the other option was so simple."

"And what might that be?"

"I think you can imagine, given that this is a Grail War."

Harry imagined a particularly disturbing image of himself riddled with bullets and bleeding out onto the uncaring concrete.

"Point taken."

"I'm not fond of your plan," said Archer, "Though I can't imagine that tidbit coming as a surprise."

"Not in the slightest. My apologies, but your feelings weren't a large part of the plan."

"Apology accepted."

"Maybe a walk would be best? It is a nice day. Besides, I've heard that it helps with digestion."

Archer was not entirely convinced, but Meiling agreed and they soon egressed. The day was still very hot, and the crowds only made it muggier and more oppressive. The only defense was shade and an eventual retreat from their presence. Harry felt an almost dizzying nervousness from the moment he left the public presence. Death could come at any second. The rational portion of the brain reminded him that this was a matter of fact regardless of where he was, but that did nothing to disuade the animal inside.

"Have you decided yet? I do have business to attend to," said Meiling.

Harry took a deep breath. Here, he was just as Caesar at the Rubicon; he was at a place whence there was no return. The die would be cast. Thoughts of his family flashed in his mind alongside thoughts of his friends. The rational choice here was to give up. The odds were still against him and bowing out now would mean that he could keep his life. But there was more.

"What will I regret more when I'm dead," thought Harry, "that I tried and failed or that I could have been so much greater

He had put so much time into this; he had gained a new comrade. He might even see the unseeable. He might be safe, but to continue was simply an endeavour he wanted to see run its course. This selfish desire was the crux of his decision.

"Thanks for your offer," said Harry, "but I'm not going to take it. Where may we meet next?"

Meiling put on a false smile and gave him the location.

"Thank you," said Harry, "I can't wait to see you there."

"Least I can do. One of us has to die with honor," said Meiling.

With that, they parted ways.

xxx

It was once again night in London as the vast cosmological watch ticked forward with its unerring, Kepplerian precision. The utter vastness swallowed up Harry and Archer as they made their way through the streets. Amongst the neon glow of a sinful world, the pair were alone and unnoticed. Tonight was going to be big.

"What's left Archer?"

"Don't think, Harry. We're going to destroy up and get your family back."

With a renewed purpose, Harry pressed forward. The sword felt right in his hands. Then, in front of the ruined facade of a run-down Victorian townhouse, Meiling and Rider stood ready. She was dressed in dark clothing appropriate for this and carried an Kalashnikov-pattern rifle complete with folding stock and a cruciform spike bayonet. Rider stood resplendent in Mongol finery mounted upon a finest example of the steppe-bred horse. Archer cast aside her jacket and her demonic armor was donned in a flash. Harry unsheathed the sword and saluted his opponent. Without a word, battle began.

Between Rider and Archer, the distance was a mere fifty paces. The twin arquebuses melted into something altogether more frightful, weapons which absorbed light in the wrong way, whose lustrous surfaces gleamed with promises of power, and whose geometries were painful for the mortal eye to see. By the time Archer had drawn and fired her first salvo through cloud of brimstone, a storm of iron whistled through the air faster than death. The supersonic arrows smashed into Archer's cuirass and arms, forcing her to relent. With a wild cry, Rider spurred on his steed, firing arrows with pinpoint accuracy all the while. Archer ran, sliding and weaving through cover, firing shot after shot. Nevertheless, she was on the run.

"Damn," she muttered, "What do I have to do for a divine wind at a time like this?"

Her blood dripped down onto the ground, painting it with the crimson of her clothes. At that moment, Rider's horse burst over her head. She saw the gleaming iron of the arrow pointed straight at her eye socket as well as his grin of triumph. Archer lunged forward with a howling scream, holding her gun like a spear. Rider loosed his arrow. To dodge it was impossible. The leaf-shaped blade tore through her cheek and into her mouth, filling it with a river of blood. She should have died there as the arrow punched its way into her spine and dropped her where she stood, but she didn't.

Archer bit down and crushed the arrow with her teeth in a shower of splinters. Her eyes burned with smoldering flames as horns pushed their way from her forehead. Her skin faded to an icy blue.

"An Oni!" said Rider.

But Archer didn't care. She wielded the arquebus just as her ashigaru had once wielded their long pikes to disembowel the horseman of the Takeda. With a ferocious burst of strength, she thrust the blunt gun into the horse's body and then pulled the trigger. The horse burned, engulfed in uncontrollable flames. Rider, however, was fast enough to dismount and leap from the pyre.

"I see, you must be-"

"-Warlord Oda Nobunaga," she growled, "Demon Lord of the Sixth Heaven. The blood of the Oni runs thick in my veins."

Rider faced her, arms crossed.

"Impressive for a such a young girl, but you are facing the master of terror whose bloodline lives on in so many souls, who is revered as a hero and legend. You are facing the Scourge of God, little demon, Ghengis Khan!"

They stood, tense and ready. On one side was the warlord in all her hellish splendor; on the other was the proud warrior of the steppes whose empire was without equal. Even Ozymandias himself could have spared some respect for their works. Then the Khan began speak in verse.

"And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst"

The warrior king charged her, unsheathing his wickedly curved saber. As he charged, Archer could have sworn that she heard the hoofs of horses. With a grim purpose, he hacked through her bullets, but she slipped outside of his grasp. Then, he continued with his performance.

"Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river."

Archer saw the border between reality and fantasy grow heavy. Behind the Khan, she felt the crisp air of the landscape of Mongolia's steppes. The sounds of horses grew louder.

"Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean."

With that, the winds ripped past as sheer force of will replaced the natural reality, molding the world to the Khan's image of the world, a world of endless plains much the same as he rode as a child. From the corners of the earth, rode the hordes of Mongols, linked by blood to the great Khan. From the near East, came Timur the Lame with the armies of the Timurid Empire. Carrying the riches of Russia and eastern Europe came Batu Khan and the Golden Horde, resplendent in their gleaming finery. From China came Kublai Khan from the paradise of Xanadu, mustering the armies of the Yuan dynasty. These were only the most distinguished of Temujin's line, made prominent by their grand exploits. Many more khans led their hordes forth from their camps to join the mightiest of their number. Against this onslought, the demonic warlord looked on. On the outside, she was impassive, perhaps arrogant. Inside, she felt the fear build inside of her; but fear was good, fear was fuel she could use to turn herself into a fortress of arrogance impervious to earthshaking steps of the mightiest of armies.

"Grandfather," said Batu Khan, "What is the foe we face?"

"The Japanese warlord of the Oda clan," he answered, eyes looking at a distant hawk.

"Here, we shall crush them, Grandfather, for without their gods, they are nothing," stated Kublai Khan at the head of his horde.

"Khans," cried Archer, "Forget not that, if you sow thunder, you shall reap a whirlwind! The same divine wind which turned back your fleet courses in me. My anscestors call out for me to resolve that ancient conflict. Oh Khans, I shall take your heads!"

"My historians have preserved a curious phrase from the defeat of the ancient Persians which you might do to remember well," said Timur the Lame, "The Greeks once said 'Molon Labe,' which means 'come and take them.' And that, little girl, is the task that falls to you."

"Well said, child," said the Great Khan, beaming with a father's pride, "Now, we ride."

The thundering hooves were louder than even the most powerful volley of guns. Archer stood alone, but her pride as a samurai dictated that she move forward, ever forward. She spotted a hawk in the sky as she charged. The sky before her darkened as thousands of arrows poured forth from the horde. However, they seemed slow to her as she weaved through this deadly rain. Her first shot tore off the head of a horse, sending it crashing to the ground. Against mortal cavalrymen, it would have sent several other toppling to the ground, but the following riders merely jumped over their comrade.

As the lances loomed closer, Archer jumped, put a bullet through one of the horseman and wrested control his mount. She turned the steppe-bred horse around and spurred to the Khans, surrounded by an imperial guard of the best soldiers. To reach them, Archer would have to wade through an ocean of blood. However, such oceans were her nature; deny it, she could not. In a flash, her long sword slashed through the head of a rider as her gun took the soul of another Mongol. An arrow pierced through her armor and into her side, but Archer was already further forward, cutting a bloody swathe by gun and by blade. There was no time to concern herself with those things behind her. A scimitar cut into her arm, and she took his soul in return.

She could feel her lifeblood pouring out from dozens of wounds, but Archer saw the goal. Only a thousand feet remained. In those thousand feet, she slew a century. An arrow from the great Khan took down her horse, but Archer was undettered, dismounting and charging without breaking stride. The lamed conqueror of Persia and ruler of the Near East charged her, lance in hand. She could not avoid the blow and instead let it pierce her breast. Archer grabbed the shaft and hauled herself onto the horse. She smiled at the look of horror as her taloned hand grabbed his face, and then she pulled with all her might, ripping his head clean from his shoulders. She raised the Khan's decapitated head and drank in the blood splilling from it, uncaring that the crimson liquid splattered all over her face and clothes.

"I will tear you limb from limb!" growled Batu Khan, hefting an enormous axe.

"Eat lead and drink brimstone!"

Archer poured bullet after bullet into the Khan as her charged. She tried to dodge away, but the massive axe clipped her and sent her flying. However, ignoring the pain of her broken ribs, Archer saw the infernal fires immolate him and devour his soul. The twin guns gorged themselves on his soul. Such was their power, the ability to devour souls. Archer dared not reveal this facet of her weapons to her Master, but here there was nothing inhibiting her from inflicting the carnage for which she was so well known.

"Allow me, Grandfather!" cried Kublai Khan, "I have my own axe to grind against her!"

"You may go, son," said the Khan, whose eyes were distant, looking at the lone hawk. A single tear rolled down his face.

Archer rolled away from a blow that would have taken her head, just as she had taken Timur's. Kublai Khan was upon her. A deft thrust cut into her leg. The brutal Khan followed up with crushing kick into the same leg. An armored elbow slammed into her face, spinning Archer around.

"That was for them," he said, readying his blade to take her skull, "but this is for me."

It was all Archer could do to bring her unbreakable blade up in a hasty guard; Kublai Khan's blow rattled through her bones. Every time she rose up to face him, he battered her back to the ground. As the final blow approached, the black blade whipped out in a final, desperate assault. There was a look of pain on Kublai Khan's face as he fell to the ground with his hamstrings cut. A second blow sliced off the fingers of his sword hand. The third and final put him out of his misery.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Archer dragger herself to face Ghengis Khan. He stood a mere ten yards in front of her, bow readied. The arrow was loosed. Archer knew what to do, knew how fast it would take, knew just how to avoid the projectile; but she couldn't do it. The arrow pierced her eye socket, but did not pierce her brain, slaying her on the spot. She trudged forward, step by painful step. Another arrow pierced her heart. Another bloody step and an arrow pierced through her knee. Archer fell there and watched the high-soaring hawk. The predator had become the prey. Rider unsheathed his sword and prepared the blow that would cut short Archer's life. She cried through her remaining eye at the futility of it all, that she would not see the Grail and that she would not see her Master again.

Then, Rider collapsed and faded away.

"Master, you've saved me. I'm sorry I couldn't hold on any longer," she thought as her vision faded to black.


End file.
